A Wizard's Vacation
by Innate Lymphoid Cell
Summary: A wizard finds himself summoned to an undocumented world within the Prime Material Plane. Returning to his home would be a trivial task, but does he truly wish to settle back into the monotony that his life has become, complete with bootlickers, assassins, and the most mundane of requests? If nothing else, messing around with these poor excuses of mages should prove entertaining...
1. Chapter 1

**Got a little side-tracked while writing my other story, and started a little writing experiment that grew into this. Might work on it more if there's some interest.**

* * *

He was a nominated honorary Arcanist of the Council of Mel'Rolem, and one of the foremost eminent Wizards in the entirety of the continent of Faerun, if not the planet of Toril itself. In his fifteen years of adventuring, he had fought adversaries ranging from petty bandits and deceptively cunning trolls to otherworldly invasions from other Planes of Existence. He had ventured to Planes known and unknown, stepping into the lands of the Elements, the homes of demons and devils, and even to distant worlds within the Prime Material when opportunity brought his party there.

He had met kings and lords, devils and demons. He had slain devious beholders, cunning dragons, whimsical Fey, cruel Aberrations and even demigods themselves. He was one of the rare few to have achieved the Twentieth Level in his chosen discipline of Wizardry, even going so far as to push beyond the limits of recorded study. He and his companions were, objectively speaking, virtually renowned in Toril and beyond.

In his remarkably short lifetime of thirty years, he alongside his party had accrued many titles. Wizard, Arcanist, _Archmage_. Slayers of Kil'rom the White Scourge; Conquerors of the Bleak Spires of Risfold. Saviours of Mel'Rolem; Banishers of the Planar Sphere. To enemies and allies alike, he was known by his many monikers – _Winter's Wrath, Spellshatterer, Wardweaver, Burning Blaze _and various other silly-sounding alliterations he had since stopped keeping track of. He and his closest friends' accolades could fill (and probably _have _filled) entire libraries' worth of books and tomes.

He was Dalgan Wintersoul_, _human Wizard.

He was, coincidentally, currently bored out of his mind.

"… and therefore I must regrettably decline your invitation of a position at the Academy at this time. Signed, Dalgan Wintersoul." He sighed, turning to the construct born of both alchemy and a heavy use of Conjuration and Enchantment magics that had been earnestly dictating his letter. "Does that sound alright, Golem?"

Golem the golem (rather imaginative, he knew) elegantly finished writing the letter with immaculate penmanship despite its bulky and otherwise stiff movements. "You could just tell them the _real_ reason why you've turned down their request for the sixth time, you know."

If animated objects could convey sarcasm – Golem could unfortunately not roll its eyes, since Dalgan never provided it with one – he could tell from Golem's tone of voice alone that it was not amused. See, that was the trouble with creating and enchanting a personal construct to assist him with everyday tasks. They thought they could get away with sarcasm simply because Dalgan was too lazy to deal with said chores himself.

"What, that I have no intention of dealing with entitled brats that think Wizardry is their Mystryl-given right?" He snorted. The present First Arcanist at the Flamehold Academy of Magic had been repeatedly attempting to convince him to take up a faculty position, alongside six other institutions he could think of at the top of his head.

There were probably more, but after the first several missives he allowed Golem to simply incinerate them on arrival. Responding to Arcanist Fellrune's invitation was more an act of courtesy out of respect for someone he'd crossed paths with before.

Seriously; fight off an invasion from the Far Realm just _one_ time, and suddenly everyone wants to be your friend. More likely, they probably just wanted his influence in promoting their institutions, but he had no intention of working with young upstarts who thought they could proceed far in this line of work without putting in effort. That was the territory of _Sorcerers_, not Wizards.

"Alright, what else?" He stretched lightly. Damned old bones. For the better part of the last six months, he'd spent more time on _administrative tasks_ than actually adventuring or carrying out any magical research. Sometimes, he wondered how he could have been so naïve when he set out all those years ago to desire becoming one of the Archmages of legend. The only enlightenment that position had brought was the understanding of just how much more potent the boredom of dealing with paperwork was than any other spell in existence.

He couldn't even set out on a spontaneous adventure to lands unknown anymore, since his companions had retired from their line of work more than two years ago, when they'd finally dealt with that pesky demigod that had been attempting to destroy all of the Kingdom of Mel'Rolem.

Jotum Braveheart and Kaylie Fleetfoot, Paladin and Cleric of Sarenrae respectively, had joined to serve their deity in faraway Planes some time ago, bidding the rest of their companions goodbye. Others followed suit, starting families or settling down in their estates as lords and rulers. Geralt, Flynt, Ben'thok, Rukaza, Polinos… friends he'd known for all his adventuring life had since laid down their swords, daggers, bows, staves, and all other manner of weaponry.

Some he'd lost contact with, drifting away over the course of their adventuring career. Then there were others who had departed the mortal plane, either passing willingly to the afterlife or trapped in ways beyond any known means of resurrection. He tried not to dwell on the melancholy of their loss too much, but times like these always brought those accursed memories back. Trisha, Damian, Restolan, Xaraxas -

"Requests from Reignhold," Golem's voice cut through his thoughts. These days, the construct was his only companion. Was it narcissism or insanity that he felt a slight sense of gratitude toward his own invention for its presence? "'Oh Great Wintersoul, Ender of Calamity, we humbly request that you –'"

"If it's another letter asking for me to deal with a _Kobold infestation_, burn it."

Golem scanned ahead – still without eyes – and promptly set the letter aflame. Again, Dalgan sighed. The last time he'd answered a request from Reignhold in person, they'd written to ask for assistance in fending off an Ancient White Dragon, only to find out upon his arrival that they needed help with a bunch of Ice Elementals in a cave somewhere that weren't even bothering the locals. It seemed to be a recurring theme, since other cities did similar things.

"I'm getting too old for this," he mumbled incoherently. Alas, the magical senses he'd gifted Golem allowed it to pick up his words.

"You're thirty."

"Paperwork ages you," he retorted, eyeing the next letter, bearing a heavily embellished royal emblem on a missive that was sealed with stamped wax. Ah, great. Another letter from some noble or another.

"Missive from the Elysian Court," Golem informed him, opening the letter. "Ah… another betrothal proposal. Shall I dispose of it?"

"Please."

Another jet of flame, and its ashes joined the pile that had been building up on the ground. Dalgan cast a mindless _Prestidigitation_, sending them scattering off into the nothingness of the ether, leaving the floor of his study unblemished once more.

"I really need a vacation." Now that he'd finally dealt with the paperwork for the day, he could _finally _take a break. Once again, beyond the usual boot-lickers and politicians seeking to use his influence, there weren't any real requests of interest to undertake. He sat down, taking a long swig from the flask on his desk. "Sometimes, I almost envy those snot-nosed fledglings fresh on their adventures."

"If only your enemies could see you now." From the corner of his vision, Dalgan could see Golem shaking its head. "Forget Illithids, Astral Dreadnoughts and Rakshasas; paperwork alone can do what a horde of fiends cannot."

He pointedly ignored Golem, fiddling with one of the rings of power on his desk. At least there was something he could still do today. Traders from the faraway lands of the Toralian Coast were supposed to be setting up a bazaar in town for the week.

He wasn't quite fluent in their language, having had no reason to interact with their people, but the Ring of Languages he'd come across while exploring the catacombs of some ancient lich could help with that. It was enchanted to grant the effects of the _Comprehend Languages _and _Tongues _spells, supposedly having been used by a diplomat in times long past. Placing his other ring into the bag of holding by his side, which already held his legendary Robe of the Archmagi and Staff of the Magi alongside other less-notable belongings, he now looked to be a simple, unassuming commoner visiting from a nearby settlement.

Such was the theory, at least. He'd occasionally been recognised even when leaving his tower incognito, under several layers of magical disguises. He'd given up on using _Alter Self _and _Disguise Self_ every time he left his home, since a half-decent wizard could see easily see through them.

"Alright, Golem. I'm off to the bazaar. Watch the tower until I return. Remember: dispose of any pointless requests if they come through, try not to kill any burglars or assassins until I get back, and –"

It was, of course, at that moment that _something _broke the sad monotony that his life had become.

A portal had formed in the air just before Dalgan, and he could feel the threads of the Weave that bound all magic unraveling and twisting as it expanded. It wasn't an uncommon sight; he'd seen portals at work more times than he could count.

What _was_ strange was that he couldn't recognise the exit location based on the vibrations of the threads of magic alone. With the gift of _True Seeing _that had been bolstered by a _Permanency_ spell, painstakingly refreshed each time some rival mage or another dispelled it (much to his constant irritation), he could physically _see_ the tell-tale mixing of chaos and order that marked teleportation magic, forming a gateway between Planes by creating a doorway through the Astral Plane or other more exotic Transitive Planes.

He recognised the spell being cast, of course. He'd used it himself a fair few times in the past.

"Master?" Golem questioned.

"It appears someone is trying to use a _Gate," _he mused absent-mindedly. The caster had to be a potent mage, seeing as the Ninth Level Conjuration spell was known only to few among the most gifted of magic-users.

It could possibly be a prank by one of his few friends or acquaintances casting the spell from a private demi-plane. It could also be one of his many enemies, in which case he was potentially screwed since he had made it a point to never reveal his true name to anyone, after learning of the power Names held since beginning his studies in magic. Most wizards likewise took on a Mage name of their own as they progressed in their studies. It didn't stop some idiots from thinking that Wintersoul was his real name, of course.

Back on topic: if one of his enemies had gotten hold of his Name, they must have_ really_ wanted him dead.

Then, he heard what he presumed was the voice of the caster of the spell.

"…_that exists somewhere in this vast universe. My divine, beautiful, wise, and powerful servant..."_

He raised an eyebrow. Attempting a gate without a location or a True Name? This caster had to be powerful, indeed. The portal was still growing, but the threads of magic were now rearranging into a more docile form, linking two locations within the Prime Material Plane.

'_Divine, beautiful, wise _and _powerful', _though? With the exception of the last one, he'd argue against the rest of the descriptors.

Ignoring the mechanics of how the target for the spell's exit vector was chosen, it was still odd to request for a servant with the _Gate_ spell. Was it hubris born of overconfidence in ones abilities, to think that the spell would bind the summoned creature to their will? In fact, the wording of the spell and the form that the Weave was taking were almost more in line with -

"_Heed my call! I wish from the very bottom of my heart and soul! By the Pentagon of the Five Elemental Powers, appear before me, O' Familiar!"_

_\- Find Familiar_, a Conjuration spell on the other end of the potency spectrum as _Gate. _

Something had either gone horribly wrong by some novice wizard, or an Archmage had developed a fusion between the two Conjuration spells. Regardless, it didn't matter to Dalgan at present, since both spells had no consideration for his own desires.

Still, this was _novel_. Finally. For the first time in a long while, he felt excitement. A journey into a land unknown? Potentially meeting with another Wizard, perhaps learning the matrix of the spell if he was willing to part with it? A magical duel if he turned out to be an enemy?

Whatever the outcomes were, it beat rotting his life away while he stayed inside a tower. Besides, if he were truly threatened, he could simply _Teleport_ back to his tower. Casting a _Gate _meant that teleportation magic wasn't blocked on the other end, and he was confident of returning in the time that an _Antimagic Field _or _Private Sanctum _would take to set up to block his retreat if they turned out to be enemies.

"If I'm not back in ten minutes, assume I'm dead or on vacation."

With that, he touched the portal, and he could audibly hear his construct _sigh_ from behind him as he felt the familiar whirling sensation of traversing through the Astral Plane to his unknown destination.

-o-o-o-

When he appeared on the other side to find the Conjurer who had summoned him, he was greeted only by the sight of a dust cloud that was only just beginning to settle, a sneeze threatening to form as he inhaled in the air.

_Ah, curses. _Truly a despicable fiend, to use his body's natural aversion to fine dust against himself. Waving that sarcastic thought aside, he thought about his previous conjectures. He doubted one of his foes would be so inept, which left a prank or an accident as possible explanations.

He took a quick look around, _True Seeing_ allowing him to pierce through the obscuring cloud which he assumed came in the spell's aftermath. There were a bunch of children gathered in a courtyard of some sort, bearing identical attire and clutching arcane foci of various forms. Off to one side, a bald, bespectacled person was hurrying toward him, also carrying a staff in his hand.

Ah, _great_. The uniforms spoke of an institution, and the traces of magic in their wands and staves pointed to them being wizards or sorcerers.

A Magical Academy, then. Was there a novice Wild Mage at work here? If so, he was mildly impressed; even with the unpredictability of Wild Magic, to twist a First Level Spell into achieving the effect of a Ninth Level one was unheard of. In fact –

_\- oh, by the great Nethys' name, are those a Dragon and a Beholderkin?_

The dragon was far smaller than the Ancient ones that his party had dealt with back in the day, but its size was comparable to the younger broodlings of Faerûn. More importantly, it was docile, gently rubbing its snout against a blue-haired student of the arcane. The floating eyeball, for lack of a better description, very vaguely resembled a cheap offshoot of a Beholder or ones of its lesser Observer kin, but he could detect none of the usual magical and antimagical effects of its Gaze that made the aberration creature so feared, especially by those dependent on spellcasting in combat.

And what in the ever-living Feywilds was _that_? Some sort of unholy cross between a Giant Toad and a Salamander? Could an elemental and a beast even reproduce?

If he had any doubt before, he was now fairly certain that he was no longer in Faerûn, Toril, or any previously-documented world in the many tomes he'd read on the subject even prior to his party's exploration of the Astral Sphere years ago.

Well, guess he wasn't about to engage in a duel for the ages any time soon. Part of him couldn't help but feel disappointed. Still, this was a novel experience for him. If anything, it beat the monotony that his life had turned into for the past several months. Or had it been years? With the way that the days had blended into one another, it was hard to tell.

The dust was dissipating now. The man he assumed was the instructor was drawing closer, and at this distance Dalgan could pick out several more details. He seemed competent, approaching Dalgan as though he was a threat, keeping his staff by his side but ready to cast at any time. He could see the Weave shaping around the man, probably beginning to work at a spell, ready to Speak it into being if Dalgan proved to be a threat. Clearly, he knew combat well.

Closer to him, there was a student now slowly getting off on the ground – pink-haired, short, seemingly younger than the rest of her peers. Beyond that, though, she looked to be otherwise extremely unassuming. The threads of magic were starting to settle around her, possibly indicating that she casted the spell that brought him here. Surprise, shock and relief were clear on her face, a classic Wild Mage reaction if he ever saw one. Interesting.

For a moment, he looked toward the pair of them, briefly glancing at the students behind. The dust was gone now, leaving them staring silently at one another.

A second passed. Two.

_Well, this is awkward._

"Hi."

With those words, the floodgates seemed to open. Students in the rear were pointing, laughing and shouting. Seems like he was right to have rejected all those teaching requests, if this was what he had to deal with.

"Hah! She summoned a _commoner_?"

"Of course Louise the Zero's familiar would be a peasant!"

"A human familiar?!"

"Wait, does that count as a successful spell?"

There were many other voices lost in the chatter, but he learned enough from just those few sentences. He didn't quite recognise the spoken language, but it was fortuitous that he had put on the Ring of Languages for his now-moot plan to check out the bazaar. He wasn't complaining though; so far this seemed like it could be more interesting. It seemed some wizard – the pink-haired girl, probably – had a _Find Familiar _spell go awry, bringing him here instead of whatever desired beast was on her mind.

Still, though, calling him a commoner? A peasant? He hadn't heard those words used to describe him in a long, _long _time. Did they not notice his –

Ah, right. His magical artifacts were currently in his bag of holding by his waist, and the ring he wore was designed to appear inconspicuous.

It was, honestly speaking, _extremely_ refreshing. For once, he wasn't being addressed by the many titles that he hadn't even coined for himself.

"Professor Colbert!" the girl was saying. He _should_ pay attention here, although even this was strange territory. He didn't feel bound to her will just yet, unlike a regular _Find Familiar._ Damned unpredictable Wild Mages. "Can I cast the spell again?"

The Colbert fellow shook his head, waving his staff, although the guarded expression he wore earlier had morphed into curiosity. A little bit of a mistake, since Dalgan could probably still easily take them all out in a spell or two if he so pleased.

"No. The Summoning Ritual is a sacred one that determines the rest of a mage's life. Whether you like it or not, he has been chosen as your familiar." He acknowledged Dalgan's presence with a slight nod. "Now that he has been summoned, you must continue the ritual. Otherwise, I have no choice but to mark this as another failure."

Tough luck for them, to have brought a wizard of his calibre. He was fairly confident he could dispel the binding magic, even if the Wild Mage could overload the potency of her spells. When cast at the Ninth Level, _Dispel Magic_ was a force beyond most wizards' abilities to reckon with. If he wasn't able to break through a spell cast by someone who seemed to be no better than a _novice_, he really deserved to become a familiar, he thought derisively.

Still, it was probably better to clarify the terms involved here.

"A familiar?" he spoke for the second time, feigning ignorance. The girl was steadfastly refusing to look at him, eyeing a spot just in front of his feet, while the more senior wizard had turned back toward him as soon as he spoke. "What does that mean?"

"Ah, forgive me. I must admit, summoning a human familiar is unusual," he mused, stroking at his chin. "Still, if Brimir himself wills it to be so, then there is no doubt that you have been chosen to be Miss Vallière's closest companion."

That… really didn't answer any of his questions. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry, but Colbert had already turned back toward this _Vallière _girl. He'd just have to wait and see, he supposed. Who knew, perhaps there was a chance for some grand revelation that he'd unknowingly been a Celestial, Fey or Fiend for his entire life the same way that all other familiars were?

"You want this _peasant_ to become my familiar?" she asked her teacher incredulously. How rude. Under Colbert's stern glare, she relented, reluctantly steeling herself to complete whatever this binding process entailed.

He scrutinised Vallière carefully, now that she was beginning to approach him. There was a _look_ about her that he came to associate with the many noble brats he had the misfortune of coming across at various functions that his companions had dragged him into, with her haughty expression and the way she still refused to look him in the eye.

Underneath that, though, he saw some clear signs that pointed to her inexperience. There was doubt, and from the reactions of the other students thus far it wasn't too difficult to guess why. Wild Mages always struggled to control the inherent chaotic manner that their voice, body and soul interacted with the Weave, resulting in the unpredictable outcomes of their spells.

It was unfortunate, because with the way that magic worked there was simply no _room_ for doubt.

He wasn't just saying that simply because _doubt_ was the last thing a wizard wanted when already an hour deep into the inscribing and enchantment of an Abjuration ward scheme, but also because even having so much as a shred of uncertainty halted the flow of magic brought by the resonance of one's voice, utterly demolishing any semblance of order in the reverberations of the threads of the Weave. Many Wild Mages didn't progress far without a proper master because of this conundrum, doubt and unpredictability perpetuating their own cycle.

Unfortunately for the girl, though, Dalgan wasn't one of said masters. Hells, he wasn't even a spontaneous caster such as a sorcerer, gifted with an instinctive sense over the ebb and flow of the Weave. He was a _Wizard_, one that attained mastery of magic through careful study, observation and practice. Sure, he could see how the threads still danced and unravelled around her, calm when compared to a mage in the midst of spellcasting yet nonetheless still in perpetual motion, but he genuinely had no idea _why_ he had been brought here by her spell.

He was, dare he say it, a little excited. Wild Mages brought with them so much excellent material for study. It probably wouldn't be far-fetched to say that most of the recent developments in the field came from observations of –

"S- stop staring at me!"

Hmm? A shrill voice interrupted his thoughts. The girl was standing just in front of him, far closer than before, her cheeks mildly reddened, and he could hear the laughter of the other students in the courtyard now. Was it just his imagination, or had the crowd grown since his last inspection?

Incidentally, how in all the Nine Hells could a Beholder-like floating eyeball _laugh_ so jovially?

She was glaring at him now, standing on her tiptoes while furtively trying to send him a message of some sort, finally making eye-contact. What did she –

"Be thankful for this!" she snapped. "Normally a noble would never do this with a peasant! Now, kneel!"

Oh, right. Was this some kind of old-fashioned ceremonial ritual? He lowered himself into a kneeling position, smiling ever-so-slightly in amusement. Was he supposed to be knighted, like a vassal serving his lord, or perhaps –

She stepped forward, hesitated for only a moment, then leaned in and kissed him.

Well, he could safely say that he wasn't expecting _that._

Was there even an entry in his extensive spell-book that required such a bizarre somatic component to be cast, whether done though traditional methods or his personal modifications and tweaks?

It had been quick, chaste. What even was the point of that? As far as spells of magical binding went, they typically involved either prolonged period of casting, such as the _Geas_ spell, in order to interact with the target's very soul through the manipulation of the Weave, or they made use of material components specific to the creature, such as an offering of blood, hair, skin, flesh, or any other bodily substance.

In contrast, the brief contact that her spell used really offered not much in the way of binding. As far as he could tell, his will was still his own, and his magic had otherwise been unaffected. He would know, having been subject to _Dominate Monster _cast by some of his most deadly foes before in memories he wished would stay buried. He could cast a _Mind Blank_ and a _Dispel Magic_ to be sure, but that seemed like overkill. With how much study he had dedicated to the subject following that _incident_ in the Planar Sphere, magical binding was one of the topics he had a foremost mastery of.

Then again, this was possibly Wild Magic he was dealing with. For all he knew, he could be _Polymorphed _into a lizard in a week's time.

"Stop staring!" she shouted again. "You… you peasant!"

Ah, there he was spacing out again. He looked at her apologetically, even though it wasn't really _her_ per se that he had been distracted over. He absently brushed dirt off from his breeches as he stood from where he was kneeling – he wasn't about to cast a _Prestidigitation _while they still thought he was a mere peasant – then laughed sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm kind of new here, and –"

A sudden heat building up on the dorsal surface of his left hand brought that sentence to a premature halt. It wasn't hot, certainly nowhere close to _Hellfire Rays_ he had dealt with many times in the past, but it wasn't comfortable either. Strange runes were glowing on its surface, and even with his vast knowledge of a variety of contemporary and ancient rune schemes and the Ring of Languages that could decipher most runic languages on his finger, their meaning was still lost to him.

_Most curious indeed._

"That is the rune of the familiar being branded into you," Colbert explained helpfully, a kind smile on his face. He didn't seem to share the same disdain for commoners that his new 'master' and the other students had. "It may be painful at first, but it should pass over quickly."

Sure enough, the searing heat had given way slightly, the runes dimming in intensity, yet his understanding of their meaning hadn't changed. It was inherently magical, that much was certain, with how the threads of the Weave were flowing into them as though an extension of his material self, yet he couldn't quite discern their function just yet. As far as he could tell, he wasn't at all beholden to his summoner. Curious.

He grinned to himself, thinking over what had happened in just the last five minutes. Summoned by a _Gate _spell that turned out to be a _very_ badly (or excellently, depending on your point of view) cast _Find Familiar_? Mistaken as a simple commoner, rather than _Winter's Wrath, Spellshatterer, Wardweaver, Permafrost _or any other ridiculous title? Kissed by some amateur mage in the most bizarre _Find Familiar_ ritual he had seen to date? Runes that even he, with his vast collection of tomes obtained from Toril and Planes beyond, couldn't begin to comprehend?

He'd take all that over replying to pointless letters any day. He wasn't a devout believer of the deities, despite having met many of their pious servants and even a couple of the demigods themselves, but perhaps they did listen to his prayers after all.

He coughed, schooling his expression as he looked at his new 'master' that hardly held a hold over him in any magical sense. They assumed him to be a peasant, and he wasn't going to dissuade them of that notion, after his personal experiences with titles and accolades.

"'Ello, Lady Vallière! Name's Dalgan Dimwit, but just call me Dalgan! I suppose 'yer my new master now, eh?"

_Nailed it._

He savoured the dumbstruck expression on her face, mirrored closely by those of her fellow students still gathered at the spectacle. Moments later, hers morphed into warring despair and rage, while the others began to guffaw loudly at her expense.

"_Dimwit?!"_

"_Of course _her Familiar's name is Dimwit!"

"Hah! Louise really summoned a peasant after all! A zero just like his master!"

_Louise_, was it? She turned toward the one who had spoken, a blonde-haired boy who fit every description of a bratty noble, her cheeks reddening. He watched with interest as she raised her wand into the air, threads of magic dancing chaotically as she prepared some grotesque mockery of formal magic that could scarcely be called a spell, while the boy yelped and dove down into the ground. He wasn't alone; many of his peers reacted similarly as soon as she raised the wand.

Moments later, he could pinpoint the exact moment where the metaphysical threads _snapped_, followed closely by a loud explosion that sent a cloud of dust into the air once more. Students were flung backward, clothes singed, a miniature crater left in the ground, all while the professor looked on helplessly.

That was… unrefined, to put it mildly.

Despite himself, Dalgan grinned. He _could _teleport back to the teleportation circle back on his tower in Toril and deal with his paperwork and sarcastic remarks from his personal arcane servant…

…or he could _stay_, and pretend to be a clueless peasant from some far-off land all while studying the strange magical phenomena he had seen in the five minutes he had spent in this world. It didn't hurt that he could get the chance to mess around with some uppity noble brats.

There were no expectations of him; no dragons, Illithid, liches or Fey to be slain, and the only people that it seemed he would be dealing with were snobbish but naively innocent and strangely endearing teens. Most importantly, he was free to once more be just _Dalgan, _free of everything else that came with his name. The decision was simple.

He'd been invited many times before to magical institutions. He hadn't expected to be in one, now, in the capacity of a peasant summoned to a foreign land.

Forget the machinations of nobles, rogue fiends, annoying Fey and ignorant assassins that he'd been dealing with. It was time for a vacation.

-o-o-o-

"My great and powerful master!" he greeted Louise cheerfully, once Colbert had dismissed the class after the commotion had blown over. In a rather wasteful display of magic, most of the students had simply used a variant of _Fly _to leave the courtyard, leaving only him and his new master alone. "I serve at your beck and call! Why, I heard 'yer words in my mind loud and clear! I'm touched that you think I'm _divine, beautiful, wise_ and _powerful!"_

Passing students snickered at that as they headed away from the courtyard, probably toward another class in this Academy that Colbert had very briefly told him was the Tristain Academy of Magic in the scant few seconds he had before his lesson had ended. Different civilisations tended to understand magic differently, and he was interested in seeing just how this society viewed magic. Were they the so-called Conventionals, working at magic through rigorous and defined theory, or did they adopt more whimsical approaches that were almost like a hybrid between Wizardry and Sorcery?

"Quiet!" Louise snapped. _How sociable._ "You're a peasant! Speak when spoken to!"

He shrugged off the derogatory remark. As far as insults went, he'd heard far worse. If only she knew who she was talking to, eh?

Still, though, he couldn't just let his new so-called 'master' maintain such a narrow world view. He settled on an expression of confusion, tilting his head to one side. "Aren't I your Familiar, Lady Vallière?"

"There is no way that a stupid peasant like you can be my Familiar," she shot back, not even pausing as she entered the classroom. Once again, as he followed through, curious eyes looked toward him alongside excited murmuring and pointed fingers. Playing the role assumed of him, he waved back excitedly, drawing another round of laughter.

"Come here, you stupid Familiar!" Louise snapped, face flushed, dragging him by the collar.

"I thought I wasn't your Familiar?"

"S – shut up!" She sat down at her seat, looking challengingly at her classmates that were eyeing them with interest. Kudos to her, she had guts in that regard, although it waded dangerously close to the territory of overconfidence. He shrugged, moving to sit beside her, but was interrupted yet again.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, shoving him away. "This is a mage's seat! You're a peasant! Go there!"

She pointed off to the side at the hard wooden steps of the lecture theatre. He should take offense to that, given that calling him a simple _mage _was a gross understatement, but tangling with powers beyond the scope of most people's imaginations tended to blunt out any affect he might have had to such petty slights. He shrugged, doing as he was bidden, scratching his head. "'pologies, master."

She huffed under her breath. _"Commoners_," she muttered.

He pointedly ignored the rest of the students, sitting on the steps idly while he eyed his immediate surroundings. While a school established solely for nobles to learn to use magic (despite many having no talent for the arcane) wasn't unheard of, he had come across more than enough contextual clues thus far to suspect that this world, or at least this country of Tristain, had a noble class that was _strictly_ composed of mages. It would certainly explain why the ragged attire he had worn for his initial purpose of inconspicuously blending in with the folk at the bazaar had caused them to belittle him that much.

On the other hand, it also seemed as though these brats respected nothing but sheer _magical_ power. Had they never seen a Rogue or Fighter in action? He was half-convinced that if Ben'Thok so wished, he could put two daggers into his neck before even being able to so much as speak the first syllable of an incantation.

All in all, he got the sense of a very strange societal structure indeed. A magicocracy, perhaps, if all nobles were indeed mages? Were there no similar organisations or institutions for those that relied on more physical means of combat?

Alas, he no longer had time to ponder on that line of thought, because the next class had already begun. A woman walked into the classroom, a middle-aged motherly-looking lady wearing a wide-rimmed and pointy hat. He had seen similar attire worn by many Wizards across different cultures, but he never did fancy the practice himself. It seemed impractical, and it hindered access to an Ioun Stone at times when it was needed.

"Good morning, class!" she greeted cheerfully. "Continuing on from yesterday's lesson, we shall talk more about Earth magic!"

…_Earth magic? _It could work in theory, but why would it ever be practical to teach a class solely on that? It stretched such a wide range of spells, across a variety of different Schools and complexities, that it didn't seem feasible for any wizard to learn magic through constituent elements alone. _Mold Earth _was as far apart from _Investiture of Stone_ as an imp was from a Paeliryon.

"As we've discussed, Earth is the element of Transmutation!"

She pointed her wand at a rock, and he watched, fascinated, as it turned into a small piece of brass following a whispered incantation. He could achieve a similar effect with the Ninth Level _True Polymorph_, but that spell's scope was so much greater and simultaneously much, _much_ more complex, being the pinnacle of Transmutation magic itself. What she did appeared to be a heavily watered-down version of object-to-object Transmutation, but with some heavy limitations in materials of origin and outcome.

Very interesting. He'd traveled through more Planes than most adventurers would in their entire lifetimes, and yet he'd never come across a society that understood magic in this way, along with the spell that was remarkably efficient though limited in power. He could stand to pick up some of it as well, and modify the spell structure for his own designs.

"Transmuting a rock to brass may be beyond your abilities to cast right now, unless you have an affinity to Earth magic, but do not fret! Even as _Dot _mages, simple Transmutation spells will still be within your reach!" She adopted a lecturing tone, commanding the attention of her class. "When you reach the level of a _Line_ mage or _Triangle _mage, you can even go as far as manipulating the elemental composition of metals, and the rare _Square _mages can even turn this ordinary rock into solid gold!"

Dalgan raised his hand.

For an instant, the class fell silent as they registered the act.

Then, the metaphorical Nine Hells broke loose.

"_What does that peasant think he's doing?!"_

"Zero! Control your Familiar!"

"DIMWIT!"

"Wait, the Zero summoned a familiar?"

"QUIET!" the instructor boomed. Was that _Thaumaturgy _that amplified her voice? She regarded him with a kind smile. "I'm afraid I don't recognise you, Mister…"

"Name's Dalgan Dimwit, Professor. I've been summoned as Miss Vallière's familiar," he responded in kind. At least some mages had the decency to remain polite. She looked startled at that admission, probably not having heard of Louise's unknowing use of _Gate – did that even exist in this world? – _but reined in her reaction well. "I'm afraid I don't see what shapes have to do with magic?"

That question wasn't just him playing the role of an ignorant bumpkin. Beyond the many uses of geometry in the construction of spell lattices and working out the physical and metaphysical complexities of inter- and intra-planar travel for both material and immaterial spell components, he didn't see how geometrical shapes could at all be used to describe any arcane spellcaster.

"Ah! How spectacular! A human Familiar?" She inspected him with renewed interest. "I am Professor Chevreuse, the Red Earth. I welcome you to the Tristain Academy of Magic."

"_Pfft._ _Stupid peasant,"_ he heard a student whisper. Dalgan took note of his appearance, committing it to memory. He'd come up with a suitable punishment in time. Perhaps tripping him over with a subtle _Mold Earth_ would do?

"Now, class, you may already know this, but treat this as a refresher on what you have learnt before." Chevreuse looked at the student sternly, then addressed Dalgan once more. "The power of a mage can be classified into different ranks, namely _Dot, Line, Triangle, Square, _and the legendary _Pentagram_. The number of vertices of the shape corresponds to the number of elemental constituents that a mage can wield or that comprises a spell."

Um. What? There weren't many wizards around that could perplex him during a discussion of magical theory, but this professor had done just that.

She must have sensed his confusion, because she continued explaining, demonstrating with a spell as she spoke. "For example, changing the shape of a rock would require the use of only a single _Earth_ element in the incantation, while _Transmuting _it combines two different aspects of _Earth_, and successfully using it makes someone a _Line_ mage. Tempering and shaping it in the same spell would require an _Earth-Earth-Fire _combination, and the spell would be classified at _Triangle_ level."

She paused, looking at him expectantly. It _would_ make sense to a random peasant unexposed to the workings of magic who might take her words at face value, but none of that made any sense to him. Virtually all wizards could use spells of any element, starting from the level of Cantrips, even though some wizards had obvious preferences for certain types of spells. He personally still tried to stay far away from fire-based magic as possible, despite having come to terms with his past poor experiences with the element.

Besides, what would something like _Prismatic Spray _even be classified as? A _dodecahedral-_level spell? The system sounded absurd, and that was before even going into the specifics of spells that drew power from beyond the Elemental and Quasielemental Planes.

He didn't further question her on that, of course. Following a quick muttered thanks from Dalgan, she nodded, and continued with the lesson.

"Now, would anyone like to volunteer?" She gave a sweep across the class, pausing briefly as her gaze fell across his new master. "Except for Miss Vallière."

Smirks broke out across the room, while her face reddened, although he wasn't sure if it was out of embarrassment or anger. She protested loudly, only drawing more smiles and commentary from her classmates. To her credit, the teacher looked apologetic, but given what he saw of her attempts at magic thus far he privately agreed with her decision.

He _could_ offer some pointers based on his observations under the lens of _True Seeing_ to help with the Vallière girl's control, but from her treatment of him thus far she really hadn't yet earned that favour.

Besides, he didn't want to reveal the true depths of his mastery of magic just yet.

"Haha! Seems like even Professor Chevreuse knows of your reputation now, Louise the Zero!" A red-haired girl said loudly. Of course, her most prominent features were the sizeable pair of assets on her body. Did she have some succubus blood in her ancestry or something? "Or is it Louise the One now, since you've summoned your _powerful _and most _amazing_ Familiar?"

She quoted Louise's own words with jest, but there wasn't much insult aimed toward him personally. Personally, he was more intrigued by her outfit. How was that meant to be within Academy regulations? More importantly, how was it at all practical in combat? Did she never get the memo that mages were _incredibly _vulnerable in combat, and that attracting attention was the last thing any wizard with a sense of self-preservation wanted?

"Shut it, Kirche!" Louise shouted back, looking away from her. Unfortunately, that put him right in her line of sight, and her eyes narrowed as she caught him in the midst of studying her poor choice of attire. "And you, Familiar! Stop staring at her!"

"Oh? Could it be that your Familiar prefers my company than yours, little Louise?" She flashed him a teasing smile, one that might have sent tingles down his spine years ago. Alas, dealing with the artificial facades put on by the many nobles he had the misfortune of coming across had since erased that particular deficiency of his.

"Like anyone would want to associate with a Zerbst sl –"

"Ahem!" The instructor cleared her throat, glaring at the pair of them. Despite her kindly demeanour, she certainly knew how to channel an intimidating presence. That seemed to remind Louise and 'Kirche' that they were, in fact, in a classroom, quieting down immediately. She stared them down for a moment longer, before continuing when finally satisfied that they had settled down. "Now then, class! Break into pairs and practice your transmutation spells!"

The class didn't obey her instructions immediately, however. Heads alternatively turned toward Louise and Chevreuse, an unspoken question on their lips.

The teacher sighed, then continued on reluctantly. "Miss Vallière, until you can consistently cast a spell without causing an explosion, I'm afraid I am going to need you to stand by and observe."

"But –"

Her protests were drowned out by the excited cheers and guffaws of her classmates as they separated into pairs, dispersing throughout the large lecture theatre. The instructor looked regretfully at her student, but quickly moved on to roam among the groups excitedly working on the assigned spell.

He couldn't really blame her, he supposed. Wild Mages were a handful to deal with. He wasn't exactly sure whether she truly _was_ a Wild Mage, since this peculiar and yet innovative system of understanding magic and spellwork had thrown him for a loop, but the principle was probably the same. _True Seeing_ would be of benefit to her, allowing the visualisation of how magic coursed and flowed with each word that was spoken, but...

"Familiar!" Louise called out angrily, walking over to him.

…yeah. He wasn't about to waste twenty-five gold pieces worth of reagents on someone like her just yet.

Yes, it was a paltry sum to him _now_, but that amount was probably more than what someone at her stage of study into the arcane could earn in a month. She seemed to be spoilt enough as things were.

"Dimwit!" She stepped closer to him, coming to rest two full heads shorter than himself. "Are you deaf? Listen when your master –"

"Dalgan," he interrupted. He held his hand out toward her, hiding back a smile as he did so. Knowing nobles, she'd hopefully be irritated by his interruption. "Call me Dalgan, Lady Vallière!"

He watched with hidden amusement as she faltered for a moment, then warred internally between indignation at being cut off mid-sentence, and satisfaction at being addressed as a noble. She settled for what looked like mild annoyance. "Peasant –"

"Dalgan," he supplied helpfully.

"_Dalgan,"_ she forced between gritted teeth. She straightened herself, adopting as regal a posture as she could. Considering their height difference, he doubted it achieved her desired outcome. "As your master, I am ordering you to perform your first task."

Oh? This should be interesting.

"Proceed to my quarters. When I return, I expect for my clothes to be washed and neatly folded upon my arrival."

He waited for more to come, but she simply stood there, glaring fiercely at him. Seriously? No instructions as to where exactly her room was?

More importantly, she had brought him to this world, calling upon someone that Mystryl herself took to be '_divine' _and '_powerful_', as her summons had denoted, to do her _laundry_?

He was tempted to _Polymorph_ her into a toad for an hour, but he really didn't want to show off his mastery of magic and return to the state of affairs that the past years of his life had been. Instead, he shrugged. Prior to discovering the gift of the arcane, he'd done a variety of odd jobs growing up.

"Where are your quarters, Lady Vallière?"

"Ask the servants, they will know," she said offhandedly, no longer even looking at him as she glanced over at her peers in the midst of some variant of Transmutation magic. They weren't at all close to the same level; some of them had masterful spellwork while many more had matrices so flimsy it was a wonder they hadn't immediately collapsed.

She made a shooing gesture, and he knew dismissal when he saw it. As he made his way out of the classroom, with a final goodbye to Chevreuse (who, unlike the brats, actually acknowledged his presence), he wondered just how his esteemed colleagues would react if they knew he was willingly subjecting himself to this sort of treatment from the noble brat.

-o-o-o-

Finding the servant's quarters was a trivial task. Once he had ensured that he was out of sight of the many mages wandering the academy, all it had taken was a quick _Locate Creature_ to point him in the direction of the closest servant. As it turned out, the servants were housed in an entirely separate building, some distance away from the main complex itself.

The sun was only just now beginning to set. Thankfully, it seemed that there wasn't too much of a difference in both the length of a day and the time of day that it had been in his tower and in Tristain. Acclimatising to portal-lag was something he greatly loathed.

The building was a frenzy of activity, people rushing by with tall stacks of plates and foodstuff, probably in preparation for the coming dinner. A few looked toward him curiously, but paid him no further mind as they hurried off to their tasks. Dalgan didn't interrupt them in their duties; from what he'd seen so far he doubted that the students treated them with any modicum of respect. He could afford to wait, anyway, since laundry was more than trivial with _Prestidigitation _at hand.

Following the trail of activity, he found his way to a large kitchen, and was greeted by a familiar sight of the Academy's staff hard at work as they prepared for the upcoming meal.

"Samuel! How much longer till the soup is ready?" One man in particular exuded a commanding presence, glancing over to one of his fellow chefs hurriedly adding ingredients into a large metal pot. He looked to be older than his peers, taking charge of the operation of the kitchen. He took only a moment to register his subordinate's hurried reply, before turning his attention to another harried-looking chef.

Not bad. Dalgan had often ventured into the less opulent corners of various castles and mansions to avoid dealing with nobles, and this man seemed to be on par with several of the head chefs he'd met before. Some of his companions had an entire troupe of staff in their own estates, but with how he could simply conjure a dwelling of his own, complete with more magical servants than he could possibly make full use of, his own wizard tower had no need for other inhabitants beyond Golem and himself.

He continued watching them for awhile longer, before at last the head chef took notice of his presence. He raised an eyebrow, putting down a giant wooden ladle when at last his tasks had been delegated, walking over toward Dalgan. As he did so, he began addressing the disguised wizard with a booming voice. "And who might you be, kid?"

_Kid_? Sure, he was younger than the man and far beyond the abilities of most other age-matched wizards, but surely the age difference between them wasn't so great?

"Dalgan Dimwit," he half-lied. Now that he thought about it, perhaps he'd chosen his fake last name rather poorly following his arrival. "I was summoned to the Academy as Lady Vallière's Familiar."

"Oh!" His eyes sparked with interest, looking at Dalgan from head to toe. "I heard about that! The little lady managed to cast a spell after all, eh?" He chuckled lightly. "I'm Marteau, head chef in this here Academy. Whereabouts are you from, Dalgan?"

"I travelled around, but more recently I've settled near Mel'Rolem," he said truthfully. No sense lying about that, since he knew nothing about the local geography. "It's quite some ways away from Tristain."

If by 'some ways', he meant a quarter of the _Astral Sea _away. While the other cooks and servants were hard at work at their own tasks, it was clear that they were being drawn into the conversation, looking away distractedly from their work. Marteau, to his credit, was only mildly fazed. "Can't say I've heard of that place myself." He shook his head. "No matter! How have you been finding the Academy?"

Dalgan shrugged. "Only been here for just more than an hour, but from what I've seen the brats can be a bit of a handful."

"_Nobles_," the chef scoffed, then reached forward to place a palm on Dalgan's shoulder. He tensed, only slowly releasing the _Cone of Cold_ he had been preparing at the sudden movement that more than likely would have frozen him solid when it was clear that he meant no harm. Invisible to the untrained eye, the threads of the Weave returned to its disorderly state. "Let me know if any of them give you any trouble. We commoners have to stick together, yes?"

How kind of him. "Many thanks," he said, smiling slightly in return. "Actually, I was wondering if you would know where Lady Vallière's room is located? She didn't leave directions with the rest of her orders."

"'Orders'?" Marteau frowned, aghast. "Is the little lady treating you as her servant? I'm no mage, but from what I know about Familiars -"

"It's quite alright, Marteau." Dalgan nodded reassuringly at him. "She just wants her laundry done."

"Too important to do her own chores, is she?" He snorted derisively. "We can take care of it, Dalgan, you don't need to bother with –"

"It's fine," he interrupted firmly. They seemed to have their hands full enough as things were presently. "Just point me in the right direction."

"Well…" Marteau spoke uncertainly, but must have recognised that Dalgan wasn't about to yield on the matter. "The nobles are housed in the Mage's Quarters, but since Duke de la Vallière holds a position of power, she would be on one of the higher floors…"

He trailed off mid-speech, turning around to look at his colleagues. They weren't even pretending to focus on their tasks anymore, eavesdropping in on their conversation. Marteau gave a cursory glance over them, pausing as he spotted one in particular. "Siesta! Are you free currently?"

A girl that looked to be no older than the students themselves looked momentarily startled, giving a surprised 'eep' from where she had been listening in on the side-lines. She wore the attire of maids he had seen in the estates of lords and ladies of Toril, Golarion and Exandria, and now in this world he had been accidentally summoned to. Some things, it seemed, were common in all the Planes.

"Y- yes, Marteau!" she responded quickly. "I won't have any more tasks until dinner is to be served, so –"

"Calm down, child," Marteau said mirthfully. "We need to prepare for dinner, but would you be willing to show Dalgan here to the Louise girl's room?"

He noted how the man had deliberately avoided calling her his _master_. Dalgan got the feeling that he wasn't the fondest of aristocrats. At the same time, he was clearly protective of Dalgan, likely because to everyone else he was but a defenceless commoner suddenly thrust into the world of magical nobility and their ways.

"Of course!" she hurriedly affirmed, wiping her hands on a nearby piece of cloth and straightening out her long dress before walking over to the wizard. It was clear that she was curious about him and his origins, but didn't immediately begin to pry.

Good girl. The students could stand to learn a little from her.

"Many thanks," he said to Marteau. He nodded, then turned and began barking out orders to the many cooks that had paused in their work since his arrival. Hopefully he hadn't delayed things too much. "Siesta, was it?"

"Yes!" she affirmed, falling in step beside him as they exited the kitchen. "I heard that Miss Vallière had summoned a human Familiar, but I didn't think that the rumours were true! She's a good girl, usually never bothering us servants too much, but the other students always said that she couldn't cast any spells, so –"

She paused mid-sentence, looking at him like a fawn caught in the face of a _Dancing Lights_ spell, as though she had offended him by running her mouth behind his master's back. Whether it was because of the difference in caste he had inferred in his time here thus far, or just her naturally being an anxious one, Dalgan didn't know.

"She can't cast spells?"

"Well…" Siesta looked around nervously as they walked, only continuing when she was certain that no one else was listening in. "They call her Louise the Zero, you know? Every time she tries something, it makes an explosion that we need to clean up." She sighed, then remembered just who the peasant beside her was. "O- of course, we're only too happy to help! It is our duty to –"

"Don't worry," he told her. "My lips are sealed."

"Thank you," she said, heaving a sigh of relief. "Most nobles don't really treat us common folk nicely, so…"

Her voice trailed off, as she gestured helplessly, unable to convey what she wanted to express. He got the gist of it, though. The obnoxious arrogance of nobility wasn't something entirely foreign to him. They continued walking in silence for some time as she led him toward one of the towers near the centre of the Academy, before it was finally broken by Siesta.

"You said you're from _Mel'Rolem_?" she asked curiously when they'd reached the students' quarters, struggling to pronounce the name of the foreign-sounding city as they walked toward the staircase. "Is that far away?"

"Something like that," he deflected. _Just a hop, skip and a jump away across the Astral Sea._ "I don't know much about Tristain, but it seems to be very different from what I've seen. Magic isn't exclusive to nobility, and in fact several of those from my village were mages."

"Really?" she asked, incredulous. "_Anyone_ could learn magic?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed in affirmation. "Of course, not everyone progresses far in their studies, but everyday folk like you and I could eventually learn to cast simple spells."

He wasn't even lying on that front. Some were more gifted than others in the arcane, but he hadn't personally seen anyone with a keen enough mind being unable to access the power of the Weave. If Rukaza, bless his half-orc soul, could become a Wizard of the First Level just because of simple _curiosity,_ despite his preferred method of combat involving charging into battle while frothing at the mouth with rage, _anyone_ could learn to distil the raw essence of magic at the heart of the Weave.

"I wish we could do that in Tristain," she said wistfully, a hint of jealousy entering her voice. "I've never heard of a peasant that learned how to cast magic, except for disgraced nobles that lost their titles."

"Mmm." He made a non-committal sound. From what he gathered thus far, the fact that magic remained within bloodlines of the nobility seemed to point toward a method of inheritance similar to the gifts of Sorcerers. With a more structured method of study, could people like herself learn to wield the gift of the arcane too?

_Probably_, based on what his experiences in the many Planes he'd visited. Still, this land had already thrown him for a loop before, and it may be that the denizens of this land couldn't access the Weave without some essence present in noble blood suffusing them.

"We're here," Siesta said, pausing in front of one of the many rooms of the building after several flights of stairs. She opened the door, gesturing for him to enter.

The room was simple, and yet many times more extravagant than the ones he'd seen in the servants' quarters. A large, ornately-designed four-poster bed took centre stage, with finely carved furniture adorning the other corners of the room. By the side, a small pile of articles of clothing were haphazardly scattered on the floor.

"Guess that's the laundry, huh?" He turned back to face Siesta, still standing by the door. "Thank you very much for your help."

She seemed startled, as though not expecting to be thanked for what she'd done. Poor girl. These students must not have treated her well. "I- it's no problem," she stammered momentarily. "Are you sure you don't need help with that?"

To be fair, it was quite a sizeable pile that had built up. How long had she gone without washing her clothes? It would probably take close to an hour to wash those by hand.

To a _Wizard_, though, it would only take several seconds.

"I'll be fine." He smiled warmly at her. "Thank you very much, Siesta."

Again, she faltered, but then hurriedly bowed toward him and took her leave. He shook his head. _Someone_ had to be nice to these servants, and the task fell to him if these noble brats weren't doing so. Perhaps when he returned to Toril, he should look into the many invitations he'd received and see if their academies operated in a similar manner. There was nothing that built the mental discipline every Wizard required quite like being self-sufficient, rather than relying on servants for things as mundane as cleaning.

He gathered the clothing that had been strewn across the floor, placing them into a neat pile. With a quick incantation and a flick of his fingers, _Prestidigitation _instantly cleared up the stains. With a second spell, he twisted the essence of magic that flowed in the space around him, conjuring an _Unseen Servant _invisible to all but his own sight.

"Fold these for me, please, then place them over by the bed," he requested.

With that, his construct that comprised of shapeless force made manifest began in its task. Idly, he wandered around the room, inspecting the dwelling of the one who had summoned him here. There wasn't all that much in comparison to his own tower. A few books were placed on the bookshelves and study desk. Idly, he flipped through one of them, raising an eyebrow when he realised it was a _spellbook._

Who just leaves a _spellbook_ out in the open like that? Those were the lifeblood of wizards!

He flipped through the pages with closer scrutiny, but try as he might it was just too far out of established and _accepted_ magical theory to make reasonable sense of any of it. He was used to pages riddled with many diagrams and notations for the desired vibrational output in the Weave created through material, somatic and verbal components of a spell, not vague terms thrown about like '_the incantation is Rel-In-Yan' _and to '_visualise the desired material'_. If nothing else, that seemed to be more in line with how Sorcerers perceived spellcasting.

He could have reverse-engineered some aspects of the spell he had personally observed Chevreuse casting, given sufficient time to work his observations into a theoretical structure and then further experimentation to refine the spell after factoring in minute differences in magical oscillations in the local Plane, but the information presented on the pages alone weren't revealing anything to him. Such a shame; he thought he'd finally lucked out heavily upon discovering those precious spellbooks.

Well, he could always satisfy his other interest in other fields. Beyond the tomes of arcane texts and enchanted scrolls that were locked in his library, he possessed a decent collection of bestiaries and historical accounts recovered from the distant corners of Toril and beyond. Unfortunately, Louise's room seemed to be bereft of such books.

No matter. His spectral servant had completed his task with remarkable efficiency, waiting dutifully for his next command beside a pile of clothes that had been folded far too neatly for human hands. His 'master' hadn't left any further instructions for him, so…

He exited the room, dismissing the construct with a wave of his hand. The Vallière girl had been far too lackadaisical in her summoning and instructions following that, even though the binding magic of the ritual hadn't seemed to affect him. If she had summoned any wizard other than himself, he doubted they would have taken to her use of _Gate_ as kindly as he did.

Ah, well; it was fortunate for both parties that he'd been brought here then. Exiting the student's quarters, he began making his way toward the large building that stood at the very centre of the pentagonal structure of the Academy. If he knew his magical institutions well, there should be a library in there somewhere.

All he needed now was some fine wine and a lack of interruptions while he perused their book collections. Perhaps he could take some books and retreat to his _Magnificent Mansion_ for the rest of the day. Now _that_ was an idea.

He hummed a jovial tune, ignoring the students now returning after their day of classes. For once, he wasn't being pestered by junior wizards and sorcerers for an apprenticeship or a demonstration.

This was shaping up to be a most perfect vacation indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's another chapter, might write another again sometime soon. We'll see.**

* * *

Dalgan Wintersoul slowly pushed himself out of bed. With habitual ease, he waved a hand about in the air, mind still groggy, allowing the magics of _Prestidigitation _to wash over him. Some would argue that it wasn't sanitary, and that using magic for so mundane a purpose as personal hygiene and grooming was an affront to Mystryl, but some people were also inefficient idiots.

He stretched his arms, picking up one of the books he'd stolen – ahem, _appropriated_ – from the library the night before. He wasn't the slightest bit apologetic for what in theory amounted to petty theft; those tomes that could have fetched a venerable fortune back in Toril had been languishing in a dilapidated corner of the library, a thick layer of dust gathered on the shelves.

He had learned a little about the history of this land, and a great deal more about how bizarre their understanding of magic was. As it turned out, the two subjects were nearly integrally related to each other, since the major religion of this world was based on the deeds of some ancient mage well over six thousand years ago, who apparently was the first _Void Mage._ His descendants, supposedly, had been the ones to found each of the major powers of the continent, giving rise to the so-called 'Brimiric Nations'.

This Brimir fellow must have been quite a powerful mage, to have gained such a following that lasted through the ages. Still, he was hardly the first magic-user to have achieved divinity; others such as Vecna, the Maimed God had become demigods themselves despite beginning their journeys as mortal wizards. Was Brimir on par with the likes of those ancient liches and Archmages of legend, whose power likely far surpassed Dalgan's own?

Then there was the other matter. Dalgan had no idea what exactly this element of 'Void' was supposed to be. The historical accounts hadn't made mention of his feats, and he had no frame of reference with which to compare the spells within his own repertoire. Supposedly, Void mages had since faded into obscurity, with mages of the current age only being able to wield the remaining elements of Earth, Fire, Wind and Water.

Personally? He felt that their system of understanding magic was extremely limited. Many spells in his repertoire wouldn't have clear designations under their system, despite being well-established into the Eight Schools of Magic that had been studied in every other Plane he'd come into contact with.

Well, best to get moving for the day. He hadn't left his 'master' any further note as to his location since departing her room, after all. Placing the books into his bag, he made his way down the winding tower that was the form he'd chosen for _Magnificent Mansion._

Yes, _Galder's Tower_ could have achieved the same effect, but Dalgan _really_ wanted the food that came with the Seventh Level Conjuration spell. Some might call it a wasteful use of magic, but he'd like to think that those wizards hadn't felt the annoyance of having hunger pangs whilst in the midst of reading a particularly interesting bit of text.

Besides, he hadn't made use of many spells that day, and his mind had hardly been feeling taxed when he conjured the _Mansion._

As he approached the doorway leading to the tower, the portal that marked the entrance and exit to his private demi-plane shimmered into existence. He wasn't at all worried about being spotted, since he'd taken the time the evening before to find a suitable location in an empty corner of the Academy away from peering eyes to prepare a _Mordenkainen's Private Sanctum_ just around the doorway, preventing sight through the warded area. If, by chance, someone ventured to his chosen location right as he exited the portal, he could simply _Dimension Door_ away, obscured by the effects of the Abjuration spell.

Yes, he had put a lot of thought into the spells he had chosen to prepare for the upcoming days.

With how advanced he was in his arcane studies, he could hold far more spell lattices and formulae in his mind compared to many of his peers, but even he had hard limits. He had chosen to forgo some spells that were unlikely to see much use in the immediate future, while revising his understanding of spells he'd since let fall by the wayside.

After all, he could hardly be seen flinging _Lightning Bolts _around if he wanted to preserve his current anonymity as a peasant. And who needed _Meteor Swarm_ while on vacation, anyway? If the situation ever demanded for that spell, more than likely his vacation was already ruined, and he should just teleport back to Toril. On the other hand, spells with more subtle arcane phenomena that weren't accompanied by massive sigils, glyphs and wards that would practically highlight his abilities as a wizard were going to be of immense benefit.

Then there were others he had never previously used (but copied into his spellbook nonetheless) that he'd taken the time to study just because he _could_. If nothing else, spells such as _Dream_ could help mess around with any brat he singled out as being particularly annoying.

He peeked out from the portal, making sure that no one was around before stepping past the threshold of his _Private Sanctum._ Not bad, this location seemed to have rather little human traffic. Perhaps he should return here again tonight.

It was just past sunrise now, and the grounds were just beginning to become active with students and staff. _Let's see, the first course of action for the day should be to – _

"FAMILIAR!"

An increasingly familiar screech was heard once more, and he turned to see the similarly increasingly familiar sight of Louise de la Vallière walking toward him, her hand gripped tight around her wand.

"Lady Vallière," he greeted as she drew closer, the redness of her face reflecting her irate state. "Good morning!"

"Good morning –" she repeated, a look of incredulity on her face. "You never came back! Where in the great Founder's name _were _you?!"

Huh. Could it be? Was that actually _concern _in her voice? Now that he inspected her face more closely, there were some dark circles around her eyes, and her hair was in a far more unruly state than it had been yesterday. That was even after accounting for the, ah, _explosive_ tendencies that came with her spellcraft.

"I slept over in the stables!" he half-lied, maintaining a façade of joviality. His _Magnificent Mansion _had been placed near the refuse pit where animal waste had been unceremoniously shoved, since he figured that the spoilt noble brats wouldn't willingly touch that particular area even with a _Tenser's Floating Disk._ He doubted that even the servants would spend more time there than was strictly required.

Her grip tightened. Sparks were beginning to fly from her wand, accompanied by chaotic swirling of the many threads of the Weave being drawn toward her. Perhaps he _should_ try to antagonize her a little less.

"You're telling me," she began saying, her voice hardening with each word. "That while I was searching for you for half the night, you were out here _sleeping?!"_

She spat out the final word vehemently, and Dalgan distinctively saw one of the Weave's threads snap. Alone, it wasn't enough to cause any magical effect, but more were threatening to reach their breaking point.

Right. Definitely time to backpedal, if he didn't fancy getting hit by a burst of poorly-contained magic. He could cast a _Counterspell_ to stiffen the fibres of pure magical essence and halt further destabilisation of its form, but doing so would immediately expose the secret he wanted to keep.

"You were worried for me?" he asked, wide-eyed, deliberately injecting some awe and shame into his voice. After all that time spent with Polinos the Bard as one of his closest companions, he'd picked up some tricks of his own. "Forgive me, my Lady! It's just…"

He moved his head to one side, putting on a visage of shame. "Where I come from, a servant would never be allowed approach his master without being called for," he lied. "I would never _dare _to sleep in the same room as Lady Vallière, so I thought…"

He allowed his voice to trail off, hiding back the smile that was threatening to leak on his face. He wasn't usually one to put on performances, since _Enchantment_ spells were far more effective at doing the same job.

Now, though, he could see why Polinos so enjoyed putting up performances, whether it was through her many songs across various establishments in Faerûn or other more practical acts, such as the time when she'd somehow single-handedly convinced a group of trolls to leave a village in peace.

For a moment, Louise didn't reply, her face remaining unchanging, but he could see how the essence of magic regained some semblance of order around her.

Hopefully, that meant that she was calming down.

"Hmph!" She continued glaring at him. "I'll forgive you just this once, Familiar. Next time, you are to report exactly where you are going if you leave my sight!"

… that was a little problematic, if he wanted to be free to explore the Academy. He thought it over a little longer, which only helped solidify his image as an ignorant (and dare he say it, a little mentally-deficient) peasant, before nodding in agreement.

Her request wasn't anything that magic couldn't fix; an _Alarm, _or a combination of _Glyph of Warding _and _Sending _could inform him when she crossed a boundary to the location he'd inform her he would be, giving him sufficient time to return there if he wasn't already in the vicinity. If that failed, he could use _Project Image _to pretend to be there, so long as he was careful to avoid coming into physical contact with anyone.

In time, perhaps he should look into creating a _Simulacrum _in this Plane. It would certainly allow him to be free of scrutiny of others if the construct stuck by Louise's side, while his true self went off gallivanting wherever he desired.

"I apologise, Lady Vallière," he mumbled. "I won't let you worry about me again."

"Worry about _you_?" she scoffed. "Hardly. I simply needed to ensure that you weren't bringing shame to your master."

…and there went any goodwill he may have felt toward her. A pity, too, he had been almost convinced to bestow a _True Seeing _or _Arcane Sight _upon her when he left at the end of his vacation.

An uneasy silence fell over them, as they looked at each other. At least it was an improvement over how it had been the day before, when she had steadfastly refused to acknowledge his presence just after unknowingly conjuring a _Gate. _

He coughed. "So… classes?"

"Second-year students have the day off," she informed him, still clearly peeved, although she was now beginning to mellow somewhat. "We have been given time to bond with our Familiars."

Under her breath, he could faintly hear her muttering. The exact phrasing was indiscernible, but he definitely caught the words '_peasant'_, '_useless_', and '_dimwit'_ thrown into the mix.

"Where to now, then?"

"_I _will be attending breakfast," she said imperiously. "_You, _on the other hand, will not. As punishment for failing to inform me of your location last evening, you will stay with the rest of the Familiars during breakfast."

He shrugged. That wasn't much of a punishment, all things considered. Maybe if he were truly a regular peasant, hunger would be an effective deterrent, but he could always return to his _Magnificent Mansion_ for food when he got hungry.

"Right you are, my lady," he nodded meekly, emulating the way he'd seen servants behave in the Mel'Rolem court.

She looked at him suspiciously, as though expecting there to be some deceit on his part. Finally, she nodded. "Hmph."

He followed her, head bowed, both for the purpose of faking submission to his master and to study the flora of this world. Alas, he couldn't quite sense any particular magical nature in the common grass within the school grounds.

Shame. He would have quite liked to retrieve some material for Golem to study while he was on vacation. He couldn't have his construct slacking off during the time when Dalgan wasn't around to keep an eye on him, after all. Who knows what the construct might get up to?

…Ah, who was he kidding? Golem had been imbued and programmed with a very strict set of orders, despite displaying almost sentient-like intelligence. More than likely, Golem was dealing with more ridiculous requests in his stead, while Dalgan was far away from the many annoyances of Faerûn.

Perhaps he should offer it a promotion?

Louise stopped abruptly, and he almost collided into her while he thought over the finer aspects of wizard-construct working relationships. Trisha had always chided him for that absentmindedness of his, even though he always kept his cool in combat. Or so he would like to think, anyway.

His lips twisted into a small, wistful smile. Where was she now? He hadn't seen her ever since their falling out – entirely his fault, he knew. He'd refrained from _Scrying _on her since they parted ways, out of respect for her privacy. Had she heard of all that he'd done since those years ago? Was she even still alive? Would she be proud of all that he had achieved since –

"- miliar! Are you listening to me?! Go over by the field and join the other Familiars! Are you incapable of following _simple _orders? This behaviour would never stand in the la Vallière household! In fact..."

He tuned her out, getting the gist of her tirade. What was it about this world, that was making him so lost in memories long past?

At some point, she had fallen silent, glaring at him expectantly.

"Sorry," he said, looking around him once more. Students were beginning to trail into the grand dining hall, a few pausing momentarily at the sight of Louise berating her familiar. Many of the mages were grinning, laughing and pointing fingers; although whether it was at the bumbling peasant or the proven and tested failure of a mage, he couldn't be certain. Perhaps it was both.

"Oh?" came yet another familiar (hah!) voice. He turned his head, coming across the sight of that red-haired girl from yesterday, bearing a wide smirk across her face. The toad-salamander hybrid creature that was an affront to both beasts and elementals waited dutifully by her side. "Did you find your Familiar after all, Crybaby Louise?"

"Kirche…"

"Tabitha, Guiche, Montmorency and I were so worried, you know?" she continued, interrupting a Louise whose face was becoming increasingly reddened. "You knocked on our doors in the middle of the night, saying that your dear peasant Familiar had gone missing! With how distressed you were, it was obvious that you hadn't just paid some random commoner to show up during the summoning ritual! Why, after your first _successful _spell, it would have been _dreadful_ if he wound up dead!"

"Kirche –"

"We were so concerned for you! Your eyes were so full of tears, I had never seen you like that before; not even when you failed every spell in our first year exams!"

"KIRCHE!"

Louise's face was far more crimson than he'd seen thus far, tinged with a mix of embarrassment and anger. It was hard to grasp the exact relationship between the two girls, since he got the sense that Kirche wasn't just a simple bully. Beneath the obvious mocking words, she _had_ been genuinely glad to see Louise, or so Dalgan thought.

With that tongue of hers, perhaps Kirche should consider a switch to a more Bardic career. It certainly fit her preferred choice of outfit.

"You shed tears for me?" Dalgan pretended to gasp, clutching at his heart theatrically as he channelled his inner bard. "Lady Vallière! I am unworthy! Please, your humble servant begs for forgiveness!"

…perhaps he had gone a little over the top, since Kirche was now clearly trying to hold back her laughter. Polinos always did say he'd make a terrible bard, something about him never doing things by halves.

"Who would shed tears for a dumb Familiar like you?" Louise denied. Was she just pretending not to see the rather obvious fake act he'd put on, or was she genuinely oblivious? She whirled around toward Kirche. "And you, Zerbst! Stop telling blatant lies!"

With that, she didn't let either of them get in a further word edgewise, stomping off into the dining hall. Both their gazes followed her retreating form until it vanished past the corridor.

Dalgan blinked. "Well, that was something."

"Ahh, little Louise is far too easy to tease," Kirche commented, the fading traces of a grin still on her face. She looked toward him more closely. "You're an interesting one, aren't you?"

"Oh?"

"These Tristainians like our dearest Vallière may be too blind to see it, but you're not just some random peasant, are you?" She looked at him knowingly.

Uh oh. Had he been busted? Was his vacation over, or should he attempt a _Modify Memory _to salvage it? He was about to deny, buying time to think over his options.

"Uh-uh," she cooed, stepping just a little closer. "I won't pry, my dear Dalgan Dimwit. Unlike Tristainians, we at least know how to keep a secret to ourselves."

"Tristainians, you say?" He placed a hand in his pocket. "Hmm…." He pretended to muse, while subtly working the vibrations of his humming to shape his chosen spell, his hidden fingers moving in tandem as they complemented the subtle spellcasting. "You're from Albion, then?"

Though spells required a specific pattern in the shaping of the Weave, simultaneously approaching it both through resonance of one's voice and the somatic nature of a spell had helped disguise his spells under otherwise innocuous sounds.

It was a trick he'd learned from Damian. The Sorcerer had always loved being in the thick of action, which sometimes necessitated spellcasting when in social situations, paying no heed for proper preparation. It fit the Sorcerer mould perfectly, really.

Of course, while Damian had picked it up naturally, even going so far as to cast _without _somatic or verbal components of a spell, relying on sheer force of will, Dalgan had to slog at it for a frankly embarrassingly long amount of time before it finally clicked.

Now, _Detect Thoughts_ was taking hold, allowing him to scan Kirche's surface thoughts and emotions.

_Surprise, intrigue, honesty. A sense of appreciation for directness. Amusement. _

How coincidental it was, that there already was a copper piece in his breeches for the material component of the spell, since he'd been playing the part of a poor peasant. Come to think of it, he really needed a way to wield an Arcane Focus while in his peasant guise.

"Germania, actually," she corrected. "Don't let other Germanians hear you mistake them for an Albionian."

"My mistake." He glanced toward the entryway that Louise had passed through a minute ago. "You're not joining Louise?"

"'Louise', is she now?" She smiled at him knowingly. "Not 'Lady Vallière', 'Your Highness' or 'Master'?"

He shrugged. "You've already figured me out, no?"

"You _are_ an interesting one, aren't you?" Her smile widened. "To think that Louse the Zero could have summoned someone like you."

_Curiosity. Mockery, but without malice. Gratefulness for…helping a friend? _It was a little difficult to parse that, since it was obscured beneath the surface. He could have pushed his spell a little deeper to discern a stream of more structured thoughts, but no doubt Kirche would be made aware of his probing.

"Some would say that it is my honour to be summoned by a noble."

"Some would say." She shrugged without a sense of decorum. _A mild disdain for tradition? Resentment to… family? _Again, that thought was heavily muddled. "Do you really care what they think?"

"I suppose not."

"You really _are_ an interesting one," she echoed once more. _Intrigue. Excitement? A sense of burning intensity… fervour? _She tilted her head marginally to one side. "How old are you, anyway?"

An abrupt change in topic. He considered her question, figured it was harmless (he couldn't detect any malicious intent in her surface thoughts, anyway), and obliged. "Thirty."

Her eyebrows shot up. _Surprise. "_I imagined that you were younger."

He snorted. With how much boredom he'd been facing back home in recent times, and the nearly daily life-threatening danger that had marked adventuring life, he was surprised his hair hadn't completely whited out yet.

This girl thought that he was _young_? He didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.

Come to think of it…

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Sixteen."

Hmm. Just a little older than he'd been when he'd embarked on his journeys with Damian and Trisha all those years ago, then. They seemed much more naïve than he'd been, but perhaps he was being a little hypocritical on that front. He'd certainly made a fair share of mistakes that in hindsight were frankly embarrassing and full of ignorance.

"And Louise?"

_Confusion, _then deep _amusement. "Also_ sixteen."

…well, there went his theory that she was younger than her peers. It seemed that she was just short, and ah, less biologically developed than the other students. At least he hadn't said that to her face just yet.

"You've caught my interest, Dalgan Dimwit," she said, giving the barest of nods. "Flame and I will be keeping an eye on you."

With a final short intense stare, she smirked, and entered the room, leaving her Familiar outside.

Her choice of attire aside, Kirche seemed like one of the more decent mages around. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to have quite the same disdain for commoners and the extoling of nobility that most of the other (admittedly few) mages he'd met shared, although whether it was due to her Germanian roots or more personal reasons he wasn't certain.

At least his cover didn't seem to have been blown. Unless she was an expert in Divination or Abjuration magics, capable of detecting his incursion into her mind and immediately presenting falsified surface thoughts to foil his spell, it was probably safe to say that she would keep what she'd learned to herself. If anything, she seemed to be deeply curious of his origins, and why he was purposely willing to subject himself to his master's rule.

Of course, beyond just her attire, there were other things about her that still irked him. One of them was currently sitting perched on the stone steps, staring silently at him with slit-like pupils.

"…alright, I'll bite," he muttered to himself. The students had already since entered the dining hall, leaving their familiars scattered across the wide grounds. He looked toward the salamander-frog-lizard creature (Flame?), speaking in Ignan. With the amount of magical theory that drew from the Elemental Planes, he'd made a point to learn some basics in the elemental languages. "_What's your deal?_"

… Belatedly, he realised he didn't really need to speak that guttural language of clicks and hisses, since he was already wearing his Ring of Languages. Luckily, no one was around to see that particular act.

The creature stared blankly at him, tilting its head to one side.

"Alright, then. Not an elemental. Good to know."

It grinned happily (dumbly?), giving a loud belch that was accompanied by a jet of flame.

That was… disturbing…

He looked around, made sure that no one else was in sight, double-checking against the many tall towers of the Academy. As far as he could tell, mages of this world treated their familiars more as pets or close companions, rather than metaphysical spiritual extensions of themselves and pure magical essence, as was accepted in Faerûn. In fact, the familiars themselves seemed to be natural beasts rather than spirits, much like a _Summon Monster_ that somehow achieved permanency.

Accordingly, unlike his own familiar, the mages here likely couldn't communicate with their familiars telepathically, or share in their senses.

If so, then his next plan of action _should _be relatively risk-free. No harm, no foul, right? Backing up against the stone staircase to block the view of any would-be onlookers, he raised an upturned palm, sending a shower of sparks dancing around with _Prestidigitation._

The salamander fell over backwards in shock, a frankly remarkable feat considering how long and low to the ground its body was. It then looked at him defiantly, twin bursts of flame streaking in complete arcs that met in the middle, before somehow adopting a smug look.

Challenge accepted.

_Dancing Lights _sent four brilliantly-glowing orbs hovering around his palm, and as the creature approached closer in curiosity, he cancelled the cantrip, coupling its termination with a burst of bright sparks from _Prestidigitation._ The salamander looked toward him, eyes wide.

Dalgan stuck his tongue out at it. It was a little petty, and not to mention _ridiculous_ for someone of his standing, but really he could do whatever he wanted. This was _his_ vacation.

He looked around, eyeing the other creatures that had been summoned. Some were familiar _Familiars_ (he deserved a mental pat on the back for that pun), ranging from cats, toads and weasels to birds of prey, while others were far more exotic. There was no sight of the dragon he'd seen yesterday, but he wasn't at all surprised, since he doubted its size and instincts would allow it to dwell within the Academy grounds if it was at all similar to the dragons he was used to.

"_Don't suppose you can understand me either?_" he asked in Undercommon to the floating eyeball that had drifted by. It did a strange, complicated aerial manoeuvre, rotating in mid-air to eye him on the side. He'd take that as confusion, even though eyeball biology wasn't his forte. "Right."

He sighed, walking away from the salamander. After that impromptu showdown of theirs, it was now somehow clinging to him by his side, stepping around him and inspecting his palm from all angles.

This feeling was something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. It brought him to the times from days long gone, before he'd been thrust into a world of dungeons and dragons, liches and fiends, conspiracies and courts, cloaks and daggers. He and Damian had just been two boys discovering the gift of magic, never stepping farther than the boundaries of their village.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the atmosphere of this land. He knew, now, why this world had repeatedly brought back those accursed memories he tried so hard to suppress, whether through his mindless pursuit of magical theory or at the bottom of many downed flagons of ale.

He saw it in the eyes of these naïve brats that called themselves mages. It was in the unmarred grounds of the Academy, and in the lack of truly _major _bloodshed for the better part of _six thousand years_, if the texts he'd read yesterday were accurate.

This world was too _peaceful_.

-o-o-o-

"Familiar!"

Ah, there came Louise's greeting yet again. Mages were streaming out from the dining hall, joining the many familiars that had been left out in the grounds. A few minutes ago, several members of staff had hurriedly set up several tables and mats on the grass, bringing out trays of confectionary and beverages. Some of them he recognised from the day before, greeting them where he could.

"Master!" he responded in kind, faking his enthusiasm. "How may I be of service?"

His theatrics were a little ruined, because for some reason Flame had continued trudging along by his side while the students were gone, even after several more demonstrations of the cantrips he had at his disposal before the servants had arrived. It was _still _repeatedly running its long snout along his palm, as though doing so would reveal some sort of obscure secret.

"Be a useful peasant and fetch me some –" she cut herself off mid-sentence, now that she'd noticed the red, slimy creature that he so dearly regretted showing off his magic to. "What do you think you're doing with _that?!"_

"Oh, Flame?" Kirche stepped up from behind Louise, now that the crowd of students had thinned out a little. She placed a dainty hand on its head, rubbing it affectionately. Alas, that act did nothing to dissuade her familiar from prodding at his hand. "Have you made a new friend?"

She aimed that question more at Louise than Dalgan or her own familiar, the beginnings of yet another smirk forming on her lips. Dalgan sighed mentally, looking at her accusingly. Now that Louise's attention had shifted toward himself, Kirche was free to raise an eyebrow in return.

_Really? _he mimed the unspoken question. All he got in return was a widening of her smile.

_Three… two… one…_

"FAMILIAR!" Louise glared at him. "I forbid you from associating with this beast! No servant of the de la Vallière house is to even so much as _talk_ to a Zerbst!"

"Understood, Master," he agreed.

Really, at this point, he wasn't even _trying_ to mess with her. The damned creature was far too insistent for its own good. He stepped up to her side, but Flame continued to follow. Each time he moved his arm, its head continued to trail toward it, as though caught by a _Hypnotic Pattern_.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Louise hissed, swatting his arm aside.

– "_What do you think you're doing?! You can't just run into a pack of goblins like that!" Trisha shouted, moving up to kneel by his side. "Seriously, you wizards think that you're –" _

He blinked. The memory dissipated. Louise glared at him, her hands on her hips.

The girl in front of him was most definitely _not_ Trisha. Why did he even recall her voice from all those years ago? The Fighter would have been affronted to even so much as be compared to a whiny little mage.

"Sorry," he said distractedly. Flame had been brought to Kirche's side at some point, her hand resting on its head, although it was still looking reluctant to part from whatever wisdom his palm held.

Louise must have sensed that something was amiss, because her expression softened.

By that, of course, he meant that it went from her usual indignation to simmering annoyance.

"Whatever!" She brushed aside the earlier incident with Flame that was _entirely_ not his fault. "Get some tea for me already, you stupid familiar!"

Lowering his head slightly, he took his leave. He most pointedly ignored the low whine that Flame gave as he left, that was most _certainly_ not at all pitiful. He was _not_ about to feel any amount of pity or goodwill to that little creature. Not at all.

As he walked away from Louise and Kirche, he smiled faintly, remembering how Trisha had always been the one to clean up after his and Damian's mess in battle.

In fact, wasn't that memory from just after that one time when they were fresh-faced adventurers, barely in the Second Level of their pursuit of magic, when they'd come across that small camp of goblins? Hadn't they charged foolhardily into the fray, flinging what on hindsight were pitiful _Fire Bolts _and _Rays of Frost_, but thinking that they were going to be legends in the making?

They'd gone beyond their mental and physical limits that day, he recalled, desperately running away from the goblin chieftain, Trisha at their backs yelling the entire time for them to run _toward_ her. In the end, the goblin had somehow _tripped_, allowing her to hack away at its prone form. Damian and himself had just obliviously continued running away, of course.

He smiled to himself. They had no regard for strategy back then.

Those were truly the best of times.

…_if only they were still around…_

With that sombre thought, he continued walking forward, directionless.

Of course, with his luck, he'd somehow bodily bumped into one of the many mages sitting in the courtyard, sending them both crashing heavily down to the floor below.

He pushed himself back to his feet, barely staying an instinctive casting of _Tensor's Floating Disk _or _Bigby's Hand_ to catch himself. He wasn't about to ruin his vacation just like that. Turning to the student he'd collided into, he muttered a quick apology.

Damned instincts were getting rusty, if he was spacing out yet again. It didn't matter that these runts weren't a threat to him, based on what he'd seen so far. The moment he returned from vacation, he was going to venture to a dungeon or another, even if the monsters within were trivial. Inattention like this was what had nearly gotten him killed many times over.

"You peasant!" The blonde-haired boy was still lying sprawled on the ground, very slowly pushing himself to his feet. Wait, hadn't that been the one who was the target of Louise's ire, during Dalgan's first witnessing of Louise's penchant for explosive bursts of uncontrolled magic? "What do you think you're doing?"

"Are you alright, Guiche?" the girl who had been sitting opposite him asked worriedly, getting up from her own chair to help him up.

"Thank you, my dear Montmorency." He accepted her hand, rising to his feet. His clothes were slightly tousled and stained with dirt from the grass, but was still a far cry neater than Dalgan's peasant garb that he'd purposely allowed to remain stained, only removing any accumulated odour with _Prestidigitation. _"Truly, your heart is as kind as the most beautiful flower."

…that compliment really didn't make any sense, but who was Dalgan to judge? He certainly was no bard.

"LORD GUICHE!" A second cry came in now, yet another girl running toward him, inspecting his form as she got closer. "Are you injured?"

"K-Katie!" a sound that was almost like a squeak escaped his lips. "W- What are you doing here?"

"Hmm?" she hummed in confusion. "I'm here to visit you, of course! I brought some of my handmade souffle for us to share!"

"'Katie'?" Montmorency repeated, eyes narrowing. "Is this the first year that you most _definitely_ aren't dating?"

Dalgan had a good idea of what was going on, now. It was entertaining, for sure, but _why_ did he have to be dragged into this mess?

"Lord Guiche?" Katie asked, confused.

Guiche was tongue-tied for another second, looking at the both of them flustered. A second later, Montmorency stepped up to him, delivered a resounding slap, and stomped away.

A second after _that_, Katie did likewise.

…yeah. Damian always did say that no sorcery was quite as potent as a woman scorned. He was always the wiser of the both of them.

"Montmorency! Katie!" Guiche shouted after the both of them desperately, an angry welt forming on each cheek. "Come back!"

Though the situation was amusing, it was probably for the best that he took his leave. Dalgan attempted to take this chance to absolve himself of the situation that he had rather unknowingly created, pushing past the crowd that had spontaneously formed. Damned teenagers and their magical attraction to gossip. Alas, his plan failed.

"You! Peasant! Wipe that grin off your face!" Guiche turned to glare at him. His eyes narrowed for a second, before recognition set in. "You're the Zero's familiar, are you not? Has your master not taught you how a servant should behave in front of a noble?"

"Sorry," he said half-heartedly, attempting to de-escalate the situation.

"'Sorry'?" Guiche repeated, barking out a laugh. "Is that what the Zero has taught you? You've broken the hearts of two fair maidens! Grovel and beg for forgiveness, and maybe I'll let you off!"

…yeah. Guiche's earlier display may have been entertaining, but he was quickly drawing Dalgan's irritation. Playing along with his role as both peasant and Louise's familiar was one thing, dealing with a tantrum-throwing noble scion deflecting the blame for his own poor life choices was another. He _really_ wasn't in the mood for this, after all that bittersweet reminiscence over Trisha and Damian.

Nobility really was the same, no matter which Plane he went to.

"No."

A hushed silence fell over the crowd, broken only by sharp intakes of breath.

"No?" The brat repeated, frowning. "I'm sorry, did you say '_no'_? Don't you know how a servant should behave?"

"I'm _Louise's_ _Familiar_, not yours," he said, scratching his head. "Maybe I'm a peasant, but last I checked, Lord Guiche, I'm not your servant."

The onlookers had mixed reactions to that. Some jeered at their nobility being challenged, while some laughed at how Guiche was being talked down by a peasant. Others simply looked on with interest. Really, though, Dalgan didn't care much for them.

"You foul-mouthed –" Guiche spat, drawing upon the most pretentious Arcane Focus he had seen to date. Seriously? A flower? "You make two ladies cry, and you won't repent? Prepare yourself! I challenge you to a duel at Vestori Square!"

…_Seriously_? He was seriously being challenged by this _novice? _He stared at Guiche, but his expression showed no hint of jest.

By the Planes, he was _actually_ going through with this. Dalgan wasn't sure whether to be impressed or frankly feeling second-hand embarrassment at the mage's audacity.

"A duel?" he asked for clarification. As arrogant as noble brats were, he'd never quite met someone who thought to challenge the _Permafrost_ himself.

"You, peasant, have sullied my noble honour! I cannot let this slight go unpunished!"

…then again, he'd never quite been challenged in his capacity as Dalgan Dimwit, generic village fool.

He thought over it quickly. It wasn't quite what he set out to do initially, but it could be entertaining nonetheless. How best could he win this duel without revealing his mastery of magic? If nothing else, it would be an interesting challenge.

Hmm… How did he want to do this?

Wait… did he really have to _win? _What if…

_Yes… _that could work.

Oh yes, he would love to see just how they reacted.

Outwardly, though, Dalgan shrugged, seemingly nonchalant. "Okay."

"As I thought," Guiche scoffed. "An honourless, cowardly peasant like you could never – wait, _what_?"

"I said _o-kay,_" he dragged the word out, as though talking to a small child. "Duel at Vestori Square right? See you in an hour?"

"You… I… what…?"

Ah, had Dalgan broken him? Nobles, particularly the younger ones, did tend to throw their weight around without actually expecting the other party to reciprocate.

Then, Guiche's face hardened into a scowl. "Fifteen minutes! You better be there, peasant!"

With that, he stormed off.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Ah, _there _Louise was.

"Accepting a duel." He turned to face his master, who had somehow arrived at the tail-end of his altercation. Behind, Kirche and that little troublemaker of hers stood off to one side. Tilting his head in mock confusion, he continued his act. "Is it _not _customary to accept a duel in Tristain? Should I have rejected it?

"Familiar! I forbid you from accepting his duel!" Louise stepped alongside him, while he walked off to where Guiche had vanished past. Fifteen minutes really wasn't that long a time. "Apologise to Guiche! He might still forgive you!"

Privately, he thought that even if he _were_ to do as she said, the brat would somehow find a chance to get what he perceived to be revenge. He'd come across vain and proud nobles before.

Before Louise could speak any further, he hid the grin that was threatening to form on his face, gasping in mock surprise. He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes widening, as though his master's words had suddenly granted him enlightenment.

"By the great Brimir's name!"

"You idiot familiar, did you just understand what you've done?!" Louise practically hissed. "Hurry and apologise, you peasant!"

"I… I…" he stammered. Louise stepped closer, face softening mildly. Was she feeling sorry for her familiar?

…well, too bad for her.

"I forgot to bring the tea you asked for, Lady Vallière!"

Ah, how his newfound position had corrupted him. He took a moment to appreciate the flabbergasted look on Louise's face, spying similar expressions on others nearby. Kirche, to her credit, saw through his act, and was looking on with amusement, sipping at a cup of tea of her own.

When he next met Polinos, he would _definitely _tell her of his achievements in the business of entertainment. And to think she had said all those years ago that he'd never make a good bard!

He saw how various emotions cycled rapidly across her face, too fast to distinguish between each one. Finally, she settled for a special type of anger that he'd seen Trisha display many times over, when he and Damian were messing around with spells used outside of their intended purposes.

"WHO CARES ABOUT THE TEA?!" Now, she _definitely_ screeched. "Call off the duel, NOW!"

"You don't want the tea?" He asked, confused.

"NO!"

"The duel! Right!" He slapped his head, watching as Louise's face reddened. Was that genuine anger, or embarrassment at the laughter now coming from her peers? "Declining would be an insult to your honour, Lady Vallière," he found an excuse, speaking in way a commoner might mimic a regal tone. "As your Familiar, I cannot let this slight go unpunished."

He was probably going a little off-script compared to how he'd been acting as a peasant thus far, but the nobles of this land didn't seem to notice. Other than Kirche, of course.

"He'll kill you!" Louise tried warning him. Huh, was that actually _concern_ in her voice? "Peasants can never win against nobles!"

He paused mid-step, turning to look at her. She looked frustrated, yet her eyes carried a slight hint of worry. Huh. Perhaps she _did_ have a heart in there somewhere, after all.

For an instant, she looked almost hopeful as he paused to speak.

"Just to be clear, your duels are to the death in Tristain?" he sounded surprised. Then he grinned, mimicking the toothy smile of the old blacksmith back in his own hometown. "Awesome!"

Sadly for her, that illusion of hope was promptly shattered. He almost felt bad.

"What do you mean, '_in Tristain_'?" she replied immediately, before catching on to what he'd said. "NO!"

Ah, right. He'd only told the servants that he came from Mel'Rolem, didn't he? He didn't have the time to fill in the gaps for her right now, though. He resumed his walking, the crowd following just behind them.

"Dalgan?" Siesta asked hesitantly from one side. Huh, he hadn't even noticed her in the crowd earlier. "Are you really going to do this?"

"Don't worry, Siesta," he spoke as he moved, plastering a serene smile on his face. "I have a plan. I won't even have a scratch! I told you before, Siesta, there were mages back in my village."

"You don't even have a weapon!" Louise argued loudly. "And what do you _mean_ you're not from Tristain? What mages in your village? How can peasants possibly learn _magic?_"

Ah, of course she had to announce that to the gathering crowd. For an instant, they grew deathly silent, before once more breaking into uproar.

"A _peasant? _Learning magic? Preposterous!"

"He's lying!"

"What kind of lies has your familiar been telling you, Zero?!"

Frankly, it was kind of embarrassing that these were supposed to be the future premier mages of Tristain. How could one develop any modicum of talent for magic, without first questioning their established assumptions? _Magic,_ by definition, broke traditional laws of the Material Plane through tugging on the Weave, for Mystryl's sake!

He ignored them, turning to his master. It was perhaps a little presumptuous of him, considering his status, but he held a finger to her lips. That simple gesture alone effectively silenced her, her cheeks reddening even further beyond what could be attributed to anger.

"Don't worry, Lady Vallière! I promise that I will not be injured!"

With that, he continued walking in the direction that Guiche had gone. He could see Guiche just ahead now, waiting over by an open field. Dalgan strode up toward his opponent, ignoring Louise and the others at their backs.

"Oh? You showed up, after all?"

_Yes, and a few minutes ahead of time, thank you very much._

Guiche eyed Dalgan derisively. "I suppose you aren't a coward after all. That makes you a fool, then, to battle against a mage such as myself."

The onlookers were moving to encircle them, forming a tight ring, almost like the underground arenas he'd come across in the slums of Athkatla. There, the fighting had been brutal, dirty, with the stench of blood and piss filling the air. Here, the noble before him and those assembled all around had likely never come across something like that in their lives.

Dalgan cut to the chase. "Shall we begin?"

"An ignorant peasant indeed. I will not bespoil the sanctity of this duel by failing to introduce myself." Again, Guiche scoffed. "My name is Guiche de Gramont, also known as the Brass!"

He flicked the flower with a flourish, sending a single petal floating to the ground. "With my Element of Earth, my Valkyries will bring me victory!"

…during that time he'd been speaking and posturing, he'd have been killed ten times over in the Athkatlan arenas.

Also, the Brass? What kind of Mage Name was that? Didn't he know that the name would stick even as he advanced in his studies? He knew that fact well, since some people _still_ elected to call him by his original wizarding name instead of _Wintersoul._

The moment the petal met the earth, it transformed into a roughly human-sized golem-like construct. From his educated guess, it seemed to be sustained through a mix of Transmutation and Conjuration magic, although he couldn't speak much as to its quality. The metalwork that formed it seemed to be untempered, fragile and brittle, designed more with an intent for form over function.

Ah, a classic rookie Transmuter's mistake.

Despite its size, it didn't really seem to pack much in the way of sheer magical power. He _could _probably animate more deadly _silverware_ with _Animate Objects _that could annihilate the construct.

"Guiche!" Louise tried to convince him now, cutting into their pleasantly amicable exchange of introductions, seeing as Dalgan had pointedly been ignoring her. "Stop this! Duels are forbidden!"

"Duels between _nobles_ are forbidden," he corrected. "Your Familiar is a peasant."

"But –"

Both parties refused to budge. Dalgan waited serenely. Finally, Louise relented, moving to one side, frustration and worry clearly evident.

"Dalgan Dimwit. Peasant."

With the introductions over, the Valkyrie (if he could even call that pitiful excuse of metal by that name) began charging toward him, spear raised. Before it could even move further than a few metres, Dalgan put his plan into action.

"I forfeit."

The construct stopped moving.

Louise stopped nervously fidgeting with her hands.

The crowd of onlookers stopped speaking.

Flame stopped whatever it was doing.

The floating eyeball continued drifting through the air obliviously. Ah, truly, ignorance was bliss.

"You…" Guiche spoke first. "You _what?!"_

"I yield," he repeated. "You win, Lord Guiche! Congratulations! Huzzah!"

Hey, he said he had a plan to get out of the duel, not to _win_. Unlike these nobles, he didn't have a fragile sense of pride.

With that, he turned around, and began whistling a jaunty tune.

If he knew nobles well – which he most certainly _did_ – an undeserved victory of this sort, mocking without being overtly so, was more vexing than a true defeat could ever be.

True enough, people were jeering and laughing now, directed both towards himself and Guiche. Louise was just looking stunned, caught between going from worried, to angry, then to worried, to angry, and _then _back to worried, and if he was right, she would be back to angry soon enough.

This was only phase one, of course. Guiche wouldn't take this embarrassment lying down.

"PEASANT!" he roared. Dalgan continued suppressing a smile as he turned back to face him. "Fight me, you coward!"

"But you have your magic!" he faked a sense of fear. "I only have my fists, Lord Guiche!"

Again, students that had gathered to the impromptu duel snickered. It was impressive that so many mages had nothing else better to do with their time, since Guiche had only called for the duel less than ten minutes prior.

Wordlessly, Guiche flicked the flower in his hand. A single petal fell from his arcane focus, drifting through the air to Dalgan's feet. It transformed into a sword – crude metal, untempered and unenchanted like the Valkyrie had been, and only a temporary creation, from what Dalgan could tell. He wouldn't pay more than ten silver pieces for that, even if it were permanent.

A mildly impressive feat, all things considered. Still, talent was wasted on someone like him.

Well, guess he had to fight then.

He had of course accounted for this possibility in his plans. He'd given Guiche a reasonable out, escaping with his dignity intact, but it seemed like that had been an overly optimistic thought. Now, Dalgan would have no choice but to utterly humiliate him. It was fortuitous that he could probably do so while still maintaining the secret he wanted to keep.

He closed his fist around the hilt. He wasn't at all proficient in wielding swords in any degree of mastery, much to Trisha's constant irritation. She'd always said that everyone needed to learn to use a backup weapon.

For what he planned to do now, though, _skill_ wasn't really required.

He sighed. "Do we _really_ have to do this?"

Guiche ignored him. "Prepare yourself, Dalgan Dimwit!"

Several more petals fell from his poor choice of focus, transforming into Valkyries much like the one that still remained between Guiche and himself. Again, they charged toward him, spears raised. From the side, he heard cries of alarm from Louise, Siesta, and several other students.

Well, nothing else he could do. He waited patiently, keeping track of their positions. They drew closer, closer –

…_now._

He enforced his will over the sword in his hand, linking it to the font of all magic that surrounded and suffused him.

Then, he _stepped_.

He'd chosen to memorise and prepare this spell because it had no verbal components, and its casting was not heralded by any visually distinct magical glyphs or lattices. The spell had originally been the creation of an elven Bladesinger, designed to directly counter a Wizard's vulnerability to _Silence._

The main driver of this spell was purely somatic movement, connecting the materiality of self with the essence of the Weave through sheer force of will. The world faded away, and all that mattered now was the flow of magic all around. He moved, his body guided by the threads that pulled and tugged at it, all while the Weave and the world itself slowed to a standstill everywhere else. He was the only one in motion.

Body and blade moved of their own volition.

He struck once. A metal breastplate was rent in two.

He moved.

Twice. A helmet was carved lengthwise.

He stepped.

Thrice. His sword thrust cleanly through the centre of a Valkyrie, emerging from the other side.

Pirouette.

Four times. The last Valkyrie fell.

Another step; this time a bounce.

With the fifth, Dalgan turned his blade around, shoving the hilt into Guiche's abdomen, sending him sprawling to the ground. The world returned to clarity, as the threads of magic uncoiled and spun to its native configuration once more. The _thud_ he'd made upon colliding with the ground was masked by the sound of metallic screeching, as his summoned constructs crashed down to the dirt below.

Silence.

_Steel Wind Strike_ was something no one expected of a Wizard. The spell, while utterly inefficient for any serious combat purpose, had always been a source of amusement for Damian, Trisha and himself, especially upon seeing the astonishment of their foes when faced with an actual _sword-wielding teleporting Wizard._

He'd even cross-checked against his texts the night before, and found that it was firmly accepted that magic of this world required both a Focus of some sort, and an incantation. To the observers, he'd simply carved his way through four metallic creatures, miraculously moving to strike at Guiche in the same instant, without the use of magic.

The point of his blade tickled at Guiche's neck.

"W- wait!" He didn't even dare swallow in fear. "I- I yield!"

Dalgan looked at his downed opponent. Of course, he had no desire to _kill _the brat, whatever his faults may be. Hopefully he learned his lesson. He removed the blade from the skin of his throat, throwing it to the ground by one side.

He turned to face Louise, who was now looking wide-eyed at her Familiar who had effortlessly beaten a mage in an instant. Ah, yet another emotion within the span of five minutes.

Nearby, other nobles had much the same reaction. He offered some final parting words.

"Told you I had a plan."

With that, he left the ring, ignoring how the whispers had grown into full-fledged shouting behind him.

* * *

**Attempting to experiment a line between humour and seriousness with this story, while working on a reveal of backstory similar to a way I've seen other stories do but never personally explored. Hopefully it's a better experiment than the failed qPCRs and ELISAs that has been my pilot project thus far (cries in biology wet lab).**

**Edit: seem to have clipped some words while transferring files off OneDrive, have corrected a few but more may remain. Oops.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Wrote these two chapters as one long chunk, then cut it into two chapters to (hopefully) help with the flow. Some homebrew out of context of the strict game rules ahead. D&D purists, be warned.**

* * *

"_Founder's name_," one of her classmates swore. "What _was _that?"

"Zero?" Another of her classmates asked quietly. Like Louise, she too was staring at Guiche, who was only now beginning to slowly stand up, his face pale as a sheet.

"I don't know," she said quietly.

What had even just happened?

One moment, Louise had been almost certain that she would be seeing her foolish familiar speared through by Guiche's Vakyries. She'd tried stopping the duel, tried everything she could to appeal to both her idiot familiar and her stubborn classmate, but they both refused to listen.

She had thought that Dalgan Dimwit was underestimating Guiche, thinking that he could somehow triumph over magic when he had nothing but his bare fists. She had thought him to be beyond foolish when he seemed to abruptly realise what he was getting into, only to turn out that he had forgotten about the tea.

Who even _cared _about the tea?!

She had thought him to be lying to impress that servant girl when he claimed to not be of Tristain. She had been so worried that her familiar would be beaten to a bloody pulp before her very eyes. She had felt so _humiliated_ and stupid for attempting to defend her familiar after he'd immediately forfeited the duel before it even began. He was _her _familiar! His actions reflected upon _her_!

When he'd pushed Guiche that far, provoking him to summon even more of his golems, she thought that Dalgan would have died right there and then.

…except he'd not only _won, _he'd beaten Guiche using the weapon that he'd been gifted, and he had done so _effortlessly_.

One instant, there were four Valkyries surrounding him, and in the next, he'd moved too fast for her eyes to see, cleaving through them all to strike at Guiche.

From the very start, he'd been assured of his victory. He _knew_ that this would happen.

"He said he wasn't from Tristain," she continued speaking, although she didn't know to whom she was addressing.

Who was Dalgan Dimwit? Where did he come from?

When he hadn't reappeared the previous evening, she'd been livid. She had thought him to be shirking his duties after fulfilling her first order that she'd issued to him. Back home, she knew more than a few servants who took every opportunity they could to slack on their duties. Whenever it came to her attention, Mother – no, – no, Duchess de la Vallière – had always made sure that they knew never to repeat that again.

Then came the fear, not only of the thought of her _familiar _running away from her, proof of yet another spell that she _failed_, but also of the possibility that he'd somehow gotten hurt, or worse.

When he'd showed up the next day, bright and cheery, every bit the fool he'd been the day before, Louise had felt stupid for spending all night attempting to find him. She'd even bit down her dignity and asked that Zerbst girl for help.

Then one thing led to another, and this duel happened. She regretted ever asking that absent-minded familiar of hers to get that tea. She watched as Guiche slowly limped away across the grounds, back toward their dormitories, clinging to what remained of his shattered ego.

"That wasn't _magic_, was it?" someone asked hesitantly, finally voicing out what Louise suspected many of them were thinking.

"It couldn't be," someone else argued immediately. "He's a peasant."

"He cut through Guiche's Valkyries like they were nothing. That's got to be _Wind Magic!"_

"He didn't have a _wand_, you moron. Even if he _was _a fallen noble, he can't cast a spell without that. Besides, he didn't even speak an incantation!"

"Well, what _else _could it be?"

"Maybe he's a master swordsman? I heard that those savages from Germania learn to fight from the time they are kids."

"But why did he forfeit initially?!"

Scattered arguments were beginning to break out. She looked around, her mind scattered and confused. She needed answers for all of this.

Kirche was speaking rapidly to Tabitha. Montmorency had gone chasing after Guiche, somehow forgetting her role in starting this mess in the first place. She wasn't about to talk to Malicorne, however desperate she was for answers. She had an image to uphold.

Damn it, if a Zerbst was the only one around she could talk to to try and make sense of any of this, Louise had to swallow her la Vallière pride.

"Zerbst," she spoke.

"Ah, Louise," she acknowledged with that vile tongue of hers. Hmph. "Wasn't Dalgan spectacular?"

Did she just call her familiar by his name? Her eyes narrowed.

"'Dalgan'?" she repeated, the unspoken question implied in her tone.

"Why, yes, Louise!" Kirche gushed, looking smugly at her, grinning. Ugh. How she wanted to get rid of that expression on that Zerbst's face. "After you left for breakfast, _Dalgan _and I had a wonderful chat! Did you know that he's thirty years old? He and Flame bonded so much together; isn't that right, Flame?"

The salamander nodded rapidly, a jet of flame shooting out from its maw. Ugh! There was _no way _that she would let _her_ familiar become _friends _with Kirche, Brimir forbid.

"Stay away from my familiar, Zerbst," she snapped. She needed to educate him on just how vile they were.

"Oh?" Kirche responded immediately. "Could it be that you're interested in him too, Crybaby Louise? Did that display capture your heart? Could our dashing swordsman have awoken feelings deep within?"

No. _Hell _no.

Wait…

'_Too'?_

"There's _no way_ I'm letting my familiar associate with a Zerbst wh-"

"Powerful."

Instantly, both Louise and Kirche turned to look at Tabitha, who had finally spoken for the first time since the ridiculously short duel, if Louise could even call it that. She was looking focused, staring at the spot where just moments ago her familiar had cut through Guiche's Valkyries. For the first time since Louise knew the girl, she didn't even have the book in her hands open.

"You think so too, Tabitha?" Kirche shifted her attention to the girl, forgetting all about Louise. "What do you think? Was it magic?"

"Unclear."

"I know, I know!" Kirche followed up immediately. "He didn't speak any incantation, right? And he didn't have a wand or a staff! And _then _he said something about peasants learning to use magic from where he came from, didn't he?"

Tabitha didn't answer, still studying whatever it was that had caught her eye in the chunks of metal that used to be Guiche's minions. Louise considered what Kirche had said, though she was loathe to ever discuss _anything _with a Zerbst.

…what he had done wasn't _entirely_ unheard of. Karin Désirée de la Vallière, the Duchess of the Vallière name and her _mother_, was renowned for the speed and power of her spellcasting, even going so far as to ignore incantations altogether for some Wind Magic spells.

Even then, _she still needed a wand_.

How could her Familiar have done what he did, if it wasn't magic? Was it just the obvious alternative, that he was a swordsman of some sort?

But how could that be? By his own admission, he was nothing but a peasant. And if he _were,_ in the infinitesimally small chance, a noble or a knight, why would be have allowed himself to become her servant?

Privately, she hoped to Brimir that he wasn't a rival noble or one of their retainers. Summoning and _binding_ one of them as a familiar would be a grievous sin to the Vallière name.

"Dangerous," Tabitha finally said, looking up from the grounds of the duel toward them. The word hung in the air, her sudden declaration catching them by surprise.

"What do you mean, Tabitha?"

She pointed at the remains of the four golems. "Clean."

Louise and Kirche stepped closer, inspecting just what had caught their shy classmate's attention. Now that she mentioned it, it looked almost as though her familiar's sword had sliced through the metal without even so much as distorting its shape from the impact. It looked almost like her mother's wind magic, and yet it couldn't be.

"Hiding," Tabitha concluded.

"I don't think he means us any harm, Tabitha," Kirche hurriedly spoke. Hesitantly, she turned toward Louise. "Right?"

…how was _she _to know?

_Rule of Steel,_ she reminded herself. _Show no weakness. No vulnerability._

"Yeah," she lied, quenching down any uncertainty she felt. "He is my familiar, after all."

It had to be true, right? He hadn't done anything even before the time that he'd been contracted as her familiar. Surely if he meant them any harm, it would have been the perfect time to strike?

And he was her _familiar. _He _couldn't _do her harm. It was the entire basis for the _Summon Familiar_ spell, and the only one that she had ever successfully cast. He _had_ to be loyal to her. She couldn't accept the alternative, that she had failed yet again in another spell that all mages of the Tristain Academy of Magic had successfully cast since the institution's establishment.

"He tried to forfeit at first. He didn't kill Guiche even though he _could _have," she reminded them. Kirche noticeably flinched at that. "Come on. Let's find my stupid Familiar."

Yes. Dalgan Dimwit was clearly no common peasant, as much as he seemed to a mindless specimen of one, but Louise knew that he was _her _familiar. He had the rune of the familiar on his hand, proof of their contract. All she needed to do now was find him, right? There was no way he, as the proof of her only successful spell, would abandon her.

She walked toward where she had seen him leaving the Vestori Square earlier, not even waiting to see if that Zerbst whore and Tabitha were coming along. She would find him, get him to explain what in Brimir's name had happened, and then everything would be back to normal once more.

She didn't know how much of it was what she really believed, and how much was just her trying to convince herself.

-o-o-o-

Dalgan sighed, running his fingers down the spine of his spellbook. Polinos was right. He really didn't do things by halves.

Why, by all the great Deities' names, couldn't he have just faked a loss in that duel? Why had he even been so clumsy as to not watch his step in the first place?

Once the battle – no, he couldn't even call it that. Once the _beatdown_ had concluded, he'd returned to his _Magnificent Mansion _and what was quickly shaping to be his own personal recluse near the stables, thinking of just how _stupid_ he was for a wizard of his calibre.

More than likely, word had spread of the peasant who had won against a noble mage, and he would be facing a similar treatment to what he'd been dealing with in Toril. All he wanted was anonymity now, but even the most potent _Wish_ couldn't grant him that.

He turned the book open, glancing at spell structures that he knew by heart. Flipping through his repertoire was a habit of his whenever he felt troubled or annoyed. Seeing the beauty of how the spellwork harnessed the very essence of raw _energy _at the centre of the Weave into something structured and ordered, yet inherently chaotic and ever-changing always calmed his mind down.

At some point, he knew that he would have to return to face Louise and the rest of the students. He _could _teleport back home, but as things stood the situation could still be salvaged. All they knew now was that he was a possibly mentally-deficient, sword-wielding peasant who could somehow slice his way through four poorly made golems in an instant. They shouldn't have cause to suspect him capable of using magic.

What he needed to do now was to avoid bringing any attention to himself beyond that. Perhaps he could engineer some falsified background story; claim that he had been a former knight that fought in the army of some distant land, his mind forevermore broken by the horrors he'd seen. If he didn't reveal anything else beyond that, there was a chance he could settle back into obscurity once more.

He would let the students process what had happened, at least for a few more hours. If she'd been worried about him before, that demonstration earlier should have given cause for Louise to know that he was more than capable of taking care for himself. He didn't know how much of Kirche's teasing had been true, but the concern that Louise had showed earlier hadn't been falsified. It was a point in her favour.

Still, at least the duel wasn't all _that _bad. If there was one good thing about all of that farce, at least he likely wouldn't have to deal with any more upstarts challenging him just because he was a peasant.

Who knows, perhaps he could challenge their world-view and make them rethink their opinions of commoners?

Ah, who was he kidding? He doubted even the defeated party would show any respect to peasants, even after what had just happened.

Shattered pride aside, he didn't know if that Guiche brat had learned his lesson. After all, overwhelming defeat tended to only have the effect of kindling a desire for revenge, a fact that he knew very well. True humility came with understanding the responsibility that came with power. He'd only learned that lesson once his hands were stained thick with blood and charred flesh.

It was almost like looking into a dark mirror, seeing how these brats brazenly wielded their magic around, much like how he had been in his youth. Though his roots were much more mundane than their respective noble pedigrees, they would all eventually come to possess great power, particularly since at present magic seemed to be a gift granted exclusively to their caste.

As they were now, they lacked the wisdom to wield it in a manner befitting their station. He hoped that they wouldn't have to pay the price he did in order to learn that valuable lesson.

Alas, one had to live through such an experience in order to appreciate the great burden that came with power.

_Wait…_

'_Live through'?_

He just had an _excellent _idea for how he could teach Guiche a lesson he wouldn't forget, while enforcing some petty payback of his own for revealing more than he'd hoped for. If nothing else, it should be entertaining messing with the brat in this way, considering how his plan to prematurely forfeit the duel had gone. Even if it failed, it wouldn't come to harm him in the slightest, since the boy would have no reason to suspect him of any foul play.

As an aside, perhaps this same idea could come to help Louise with her own control of magic, if she continued to demonstrate that she wasn't entirely an insufferable noble child like so many he'd met before. Already, she'd seemed to at least show a degree of concern for her familiar's welfare, if not for other peasants.

For it to truly work, though, he would need to improvise. He stepped out of the bounds of his _Mansion_, spending some time to inscribe a _Teleportation Circle_ still concealed within his _Private Sanctum_ while he thought over the nuances of his desired effect.

When at last the spell was complete, he focused, peering through the depths of the Astral Sea using the sigil of teleportation as a conduit. _Not there, not that one, that's the Elemental Plane of Fire, and that's the Abyss – definitely not _that _one, and there…_

Aha! Pulling on the threads of magic, he shaped what vaguely resembled a doorway, linking the two circles together.

With that, he stepped through, coming face to face with none other than Golem, peering over yet another letter.

It was a shame that he hadn't been programmed to feel any surprise.

"You have returned, Master," he droned, his quill still scratching at the paper. "Should I be prepared to fend off another necromancer cult?"

"That was _one _time!" Dalgan whined. Seriously, why did Golem have to keep reminding him of that? It wasn't _his_ fault that he had been dragged into that mess, when their false invite that had been meant to lure him to his doom had claimed there would be Pitaxian cookies. How had they even discovered his love for that food, anyway?

"So you say." Golem didn't even so much as pause in his work. "How was your trip, Master? Did you figure out who cast the _Gate_?"

"Hah! I'm still on vacation! And you won't believe this, but I've chanced across a previously undocumented world!" Somehow, _that_ gave cause for the quill in Golem's hand to briefly twitch, before he continued writing once more. "The natives are a little uneducated, but I've found some _excellent _material for study. You won't believe how bizarre their understanding of magic is! In fact –"

At that point, it dawned on him that if he _were_ to fully explain just what he'd found so fascinating, it would likely take the better half of the day. That was even _before _going into the specifics of how refreshing it was to be seen as a mere peasant. He didn't quite have that sort of time.

"Anyway!" Time to get down to the reason why he'd taken a brief return home. Ah, thank the Lady of Mysteries for her portals. "Golem! I need every text we have on the works of Magus Thassyndra's study on _Dreaming_, all our references on Roebian spell-flux dynamics, Grand Arcanist Duran's _Codex of the Mind_, and that rudimentary set of theoretical matrices from some time back I had created for bolstering Illusion spells."

"That will be seventeen tomes in all, Master," Golem stood up, finally stopping in his writing. His face turned to face Dalgan. Of course, he didn't have eyes, which kind of made it difficult to tell his front and back apart. "Is there anything else I can do for you, O' Great and Powerful Wintersoul?"

He ignored how Golem had somehow evolved the capability to become more sarcastic over the course of nary a day. Was there anything he'd missed? _Hmm…_

"Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "And a Pitaxian cupcake as well, if you would be so kind!"

Golem sighed, abandoning the draft he'd been working on at the table, as he set off to begin on the newly-assigned task. Dalgan began plotting his plan, his smile widening all the while. Some tweaks would be needed to alter and modify the spell to fit his designs, but it shouldn't be too hard. He'd tinkered with far more strange spells in the past.

Yes; tonight would be _entertaining_ indeed.

-o-o-o-

As he paused outside the door, he thought he caught the sound of faint sniffles. She was still awake?

That was surprising, since it was already quite some time past sundown. By his estimation, the students would have retired to their rooms more than a few hours ago. Obtaining and sifting through the references he needed for what he had planned took longer than expected. After that, he'd finally decided to stop procrastinating further and _Teleported _back to the Academy proper to check up on the mages, ending his self-imposed exile.

Unfortunately, for what he had in mind, he would need to dwell within the same plane of existence as his chosen victims – _ahem, _targets. That meant making certain sacrifices in terms of his sleeping accommodations, staying the night within the Academy grounds rather than in the demiplane of his _Magnificent Mansion_.

Damn. Guess he better get it over with, then.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the door, the room's only denizen quieting immediately even though it barely creaked.

"Familiar?" Louise's strained voice sounded surprised as he stepped into her room. "Dalgan?"

"Lady Vallière," he greeted, once more the peasant Dalgan Dimwit. "I apologise for my absence."

"Never mind that!" She sat up on the bed, all traces of tiredness gone. She clapped her hands, and he saw how the enchantment framework of the nearby torch activated, illuminating the room. What an interesting design! "Where have you _been?!_"

"I wasn't certain if you and your peers would have wanted me around, after what happened."

That wasn't even a lie. Beyond the entertainment that should follow the use of his new experimental spell, he would be lying if he said that he hadn't also done that in part to distance himself from the students. He'd dealt with enough mixed reactions of overwhelming awe or fear (sometimes _both_) every time he made a public appearance in Mel'Rolem, he hardly needed –

"You idiot!"

He blinked, not at all expecting that reaction. Despite her small size, his master glared angrily up at him. There were traces of tears down the side of her cheeks, and her eyes were mildly reddened, but they did nothing to hide the fire in her eyes.

"Who cares if you beat that stupid Guiche?! You're _my_ familiar, you're expected to beat him!"

She poked him hard in his chest, and Dalgan could honestly say that he hadn't been expecting that kind of reaction when he heard her soft sobbing from outside. Despite her repeated failures in practical casting and everything else that came with those setbacks, she certainly wasn't the type to wallow in self-pity.

Come to think of it, he could see the resemblance between Trisha and her now, even though he would never admit that out loud. Though they had long drifted apart, the Fighter could probably find a way to reach through the Astral Plane and give him an earful at the utterly degrading comparison.

Louise didn't let up. "I've been looking for you for _hours! _I even asked the servants if they saw you! You idiot!" she shouted.

Idly, he wondered if he should have prepared a _Private Sanctum _before entering the room. He'd been in his fair share of inns with rowdy occupants, and could empathise with her peers who no doubt would be rousing from sleep with the din she was making.

"Why didn't you return?!"

"I was ashamed," he half-lied. Hey, even he felt bad for beating a kid in the one of the most unfair fights he'd fought in, even if he hadn't been the instigator and if he'd technically thrown the duel initially. "I disobeyed one of your direct orders, master."

Okay, that last statement was a complete lie. He didn't regret going against her command. Still, though, it should help return things to normalcy and let him settle back to his guise as a simple, ordinary peasant, only now the noble kids thought him capable of at least wielding a sword better than most novice Fighters.

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Louise said. "I'm _furious_ that you let the duel continue. I'm _humiliated _that you tried to forfeit the duel right after it began. A familiar who cannot obey orders is of no use." Well, that mildly stung. She continued speaking, her tone softening. "But right now, I'm just glad that you're back, and that you haven't run away."

Well, guess he didn't really have to worry about the aftermath of the duel after all. All that deliberation earlier seemed so silly now. Once more, he could be Dalgan Dimwit.

Perhaps his master wasn't quite as bad as he thought. At any rate, she certainly deserved to wield magic more than that Guiche runt who lorded his gift over others. It seemed that he would be putting his plan of teaching his unknowing student to wield the chaotic energies swirling around her into action earlier than he thought.

"Thank you, Lady Vallière." He bowed his head slightly. "I will take my leave, if you –"

"Louise," she said quietly, letting just the slightest hint of vulnerability show, not looking him in the eye. "You're my Familiar. Call me Louise."

_Well, wasn't expecting that. _Perhaps his sudden departure had affected him more than he thought. He _was_, after all, if the rumours were to be believed, the product of her only successful spell.

"Louise, then," he agreed.

They fell silent once more. He was about to leave and turn to the other business that needed taking care of that night, when she abruptly blurted out a question.

"Where are you from?"

"Pardon?"

"Where are you from?" she repeated. "Earlier, you said you weren't from Tristain, and that peasants could learn magic in your homeland."

He considered her question. Come to think of it, wasn't this the perfect opportunity to flesh out the intricate back-story he had prepared?

"I come from a kingdom called Mel'Rolem, in a world known as Toril," he began saying slowly, mimicking the way he'd seen Polinos tell all those grand tales of adventure in the many taverns they'd visited. "'Tis hard to believe, Lady Vallière, but back where I come from magic is not restricted to noble blood."

"Impossible," she scoffed, although the disbelief had lessened compared to how it had been prior to the duel. "Everyone knows that only nobles can become mages."

"Here, maybe." He shrugged. If he was committing to his back-story, he may as well reveal some truths of how magic operated in virtually every other Plane of Existence. "Back home, if anyone desired and studied hard enough, they too could become wizards. The gift of magic could also be inherited by blood, giving rise to the lineages of sorcerers and magi."

"Wizards?" Louise's brows furrowed. "Sorcerers? Magi? What are you talking about?"

"I'm no expert in magic, my lady, so I can't go into the details, but from what I know any user of magic can be divided into two broad categories." He moved to sit by her side on the bed, since this explanation could take some time. She fidgeted uncomfortably, but her attention was otherwise entirely focused on him.

"Some, the rarer of the two, learn to wield magic spontaneously. Legends say that they possess the latent power of inherently magical creatures within their ancient bloodlines, a storm ready to be tapped on when circumstances align. Others say that they were touched by magic and fate themselves." He paused, giving a moment for the words to sink in. "Regardless, they learn to harness the power seething in their veins. They have an instinctual grasp over magic, the chaotic energies within them seeking ways to manifest in the world beyond."

Such was the accepted theory, at least. While there were many ways that Sorcerers first came across their power, the common denominator to all of them were a chance event early on in their lives. A dryad's blessing, a demon's touch, water or earth from a distant Elemental Plane, an artifact from the Primordial Ages, an intermingling of draconic blood generations past; virtually _anything_ that possessed a strong connection to the Weave could impart the Sorcerer's gift to an unsuspecting person.

Damian himself hadn't been certain _how_ he came to the knowledge of the magic that was his very lifeblood. He'd simply woken up one day, reaching out to snuff the candleflame in his room, and promptly extinguished it with his first ever cast of _Control Flames._

That alone had prompted Dalgan to pursue his studies into the arcane, catching up with Damian through studying and understanding the underlying order at the heart of chaos that marked all magic. It had taken significantly longer for him to learn to cast even so much as a _Mage Hand_.

"In my world, we call them Sorcerers," he continued. Louise looked reluctant to accept his words, but unlike her peers wasn't directly retorting just yet. "There are others blessed with this inherent understanding of magic too. Bards possess their own branch of magic, carried by the power of their words and song. A _Magus_ fights with both magic and might, letting their spells flow through the blades in their hands."

He had chosen his words carefully, deliberately skirting around the fact that the shaping of magic needed no Focus, unlike the system that Halkegenia had come to accept. He wasn't about to out himself as a wizard any time soon.

Again, he paused, eyeing his potential student. This was the test. Any Wizard or Sorcerer worth their salt kept an open mind. Being caged in by the limits of their own beliefs only halted their progression in the arcane.

If Louise was unable to pass this test, there would be no use going through his planned method of instruction. He continued waiting patiently.

"You said there were two categories," She said slowly, her words calculated. There was clear doubt in her eyes, but again she didn't reject him outright. "What is the second?"

_Excellent. _Though she still lacked control, perhaps the power roiling within her wouldn't be wasted.

"They learn magic through study and preparation. We call them Wizards," he said simply. "They are a far more common breed. All across Faerûn – the continent I hail from – aspiring wizards make their way to institutions of learning to begin their studies. Others stitch together what knowledge they can from spellbooks and tattered scrolls that they find in their travels. Unlike Sorcerers, they do not have a natural understanding of magic."

He ended his brief and wholly insufficient primer on the magical systems of Toril and all the other Planes he'd visited. There was a whole _other_ branch of magic that he'd skipped, the divine magics used by Clerics, Druids and Paladins, but he suspected that it was irrelevant to this world at present. Already, Louise was probably just barely keeping herself from decrying him a heretic for challenging the system that had been established in Halkegenia since time immemorial, even before Brimir had been born.

"I see," she finally said when the silence had stretched on. "It… is hard to believe."

"It is what it is." He shrugged. "Here, you grow up hearing about Brimir and his deeds; my childhood revolved around tales of farmhands who saved kingdoms with magic."

Hey, come to think of it, wasn't that just what he had done?

…deities in Planes above, had he and his companions become _children's fairytales?_

"Back at the duel with Guiche," she cut to the heart of the matter that had clearly been troubling her. "Was that magic?"

"No," he lied.

Hey, one moment of honesty didn't mean that he was suddenly willing to blurt out all of his secrets.

"How did you do it, then?"

Well, this was it. Time to see if his completely fabricated back-story comprised of bullshit of the highest tier could stand up to Louise's scrutiny.

"I told you that magic isn't that uncommon in Faerûn. I've crossed paths with Wizards and Sorcerers before," he said, easing into a more comfortable position where he sat on the bed. "You see them once; you've seen them all. Guiche's magic was hardly the most impressive that I've seen."

Okay, now _that _was a complete understatement. The spell he'd used couldn't have been above Third Level at the most, seeing as his constructs were heavily flawed.

"You've fought mages?" she asked in alarm. "But you don't have magic! How –"

"_Wizards_," he corrected. "Wizards and Sorcerers. Mages are their own hybrid branch in between. And yes, I've faced a few of them in battle."

"How? _Why_?" she followed up immediately.

Time to unfold his tragic backstory. "Years ago, I used to be a knight," he began saying, wearily rubbing at his eyes to further sell his performance. It must have been fairly convincing, because Louise focused sharply on him.

"I served in the court of King Wrynn the Third," he said, making up a random name on the spot, derived from the tales some bard had sung about in one of the taverns of his village. "It was an honour to serve my kingdom, or so I thought."

Deliberately, he looked away from Louise, his face darkening as though lost in reminiscence in memories he longed to forget. It wasn't entirely difficult, since there _were_ many phantoms of his past that he wished he could remove with a _Modify Memory_ cast on himself but never worked up the courage to perform. The best lies came with a slight semblance of truth, right?

"My world is much less peaceful than yours, Lady Louise. Wars and insurrections happen multiple times a year." He exhaled deeply, thinking of all those he had lost in all the pointless conflicts they had taken part in, unwilling dragged away from their adventuring careers. They had left their homes to face goblins and trolls, perhaps challenge a dragon's lair one day, not to be pitted in wars between rival kings. "That necessitated facing those who used magic against us."

He saw Damian's face, still smiling in his final moments, his very body turning to dust as the _Disintegrate_ hit his already injured form. He recalled the rage, frustration and sense of loss he'd felt when there weren't even so much as _ashes_ left with which a _Resurrection_ could be cast on. He remembered the numbness he'd felt as he stared at the dust slowly drifting in the wind, his own anguished cries lost amid the chaos of war.

He remembered the fire, the masterless _fire_, as it tore through the battlefield, the sound of sizzling flesh and the rising plumes of soot –

Abruptly, he felt a hand rest on his. Startled, he turned to the side, a spell almost materialising before he finally registered Louise's worried gaze, the façade of strength she normally kept up lowered for the first time since meeting her the day before.

No. This wasn't the time to be lost in the past, as much as it bolstered his present performance.

"Dalgan?" she asked quietly, a look of understanding on her face. For a moment, he struggled with how exactly to continue his tale, that had encroached far deeper into the realm of truth than he'd liked.

"I've fought wizards and sorcerers. I've seen things that I _hope_ you won't have to," he finally concluded. It wasn't even a lie. There were times when he wished he and Damian had never made the foolhardy decision to leave their village behind all those years ago.

They may not have conquered ancient dungeons and defeated vicious monsters, but at least the Sorcerer could still be alive.

"I retired to a simple life after that, settling down in the faraway Kingdom of Mel'Rolem." It was a half-truth. He'd wanted nothing more to do with the kingdom that had robbed Damian's life away from him, for nothing more than a meagre patch of land contested over the squabbling of kings. "There I lived for many years, until you summoned me here."

He was, of course, glossing over how he'd restarted his adventuring life with a group of companions both new and old, that he'd eventually come to trust and fight alongside. A story for another time, if ever Louise came to deserve the same trust he'd shown them. She was certainly shaping up to be far more deserving of tutelage than he'd initially pegged her to be, when he'd judged her based on first impressions.

For a time, the pair sat there in silence. The story hadn't been quite what he envisioned back when he'd come up with it in his tower, but it seemed to have worked all the same.

"You aren't _just_ a peasant," she eventually broke the silence.

"No," he agreed. He doubted that they were thinking it for the same reason, but her words were true all the same. "No, I suppose not."

Hopefully, that was good enough for him to avoid the many annoyances that came with power (poor Golem was probably still working through paperwork, bless his metaphorical heart), while still being imposing enough a figure to not have to deal with the spoiled demands of children half his age.

He glanced over at Louise again. If she had any doubt about the story he'd woven from both truth and lies in equal measure, her expression wasn't easily readable. It didn't matter, anyway. If she didn't already believe what he'd told her about arcane theory accepted in the vast majority of the worlds touched by the Weave's many branches, he would make sure it was firmly established in her mind in his first lesson later.

"It is a lot to take in, Lady Louise," he said, standing up from her bed. How refreshing it was, that his chosen background of a knight would freely allow him to speak in a, ah, more _refined_ manner of speech without rousing suspicion of his origins. "I wish you a good night's rest."

He was, again, about to take his leave, when Louise, again, called for him to stop.

"Wait." Once more, he turned around. Louise looked at him intensely. "Where are you going?"

"The Servants' Quarters, probably," he said truthfully. He wasn't about to retire to his _Mansion_, since he had grand plans for the night ahead that required him to remain in Tristain.

"Stay here." Though the words were firm, they were laced with an underlying concern and guilt. "You aren't in your world anymore, Dalgan. Tristain doesn't have the same customs as your world – this _Faerûn_, was it?"

That was the name of the continent, but he let it slide. He _had_ spouted some drivel about how servants minimised all contact with their masters without direct orders earlier in the day, hadn't he? He was surprised that she even remembered it.

Still, though, the only remaining space was a small bale of hay in the corner. He raised an eyebrow toward her, looking briefly toward the _very_ makeshift bed, his wordless question clear to any who saw it. He'd had better sleeping conditions even growing up in the village.

"We – we'll sort something out later!" She flushed, embarrassed, a dramatic contrast to both the steely image she upheld in public and the girl who'd earlier been quietly listening, contextualising her familiar's origin. Had that raised his own image in her eyes, now that she thought him to be a knight previously in the service of a noble lord? "Just sleep here for now!"

Eh, comfort didn't really matter, he supposed, and there had been many times in his early adventuring days with Damian and Trisha where they'd braved it out on hard stones as harsh, chilly winds grated at their ears. Those were the days.

Obliging, he smoothened the hay slightly, before laying down upon it. All things considered, it wasn't too bad.

"Good night, Lady Louise."

A moment later, she replied, hesitantly but not reluctantly. "…Good night, Familiar."

…how sweet.

He didn't, of course, actually retire for the night.

Instead, he waited patiently for her breathing to slow, before finally rising to check that she had truly drifted off to sleep. It took a while, but a few minutes later, he was finally able to cast the spell of his own creation.

With that, he shut his eyes, incanting quietly, soft enough so as not to rouse Louise from her sleep but loud enough to still be able to thrum at the strings of magic.

He was drifting, drifting, _drifting; _as Mystryl's Great Loom guided him to where Guiche's sleeping consciousness currently dwelled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 2!**

* * *

He was dreaming.

He was in the academy courtyard, having a pleasant tea with the ever-pleasant Montmorency Margarita La Fère de Montmorency. Verdandi was by his side, his magnificent form snuggled up against his leg.

How strange. He furrowed his brows. Something about this felt incredibly familiar.

"Are you listening to me, Guiche?" Montmorency said, annoyed. He flashed her an apologetic yet dazzling smile. She averted her eyes from his brilliance.

Ah, it was too cute. "Forgive me, dear flower, but I was mesmerised by your beauty.

"Hmph!" she huffed adorably. "I asked about the rumours I heard! Is it true that you're seeing a first-year girl?"

Uh-oh. How did she find out?

Wait… hadn't this already happened? He felt a major sense of déjà vu, and yet he couldn't quite place his finger on it. It was vexing.

"This heart beats only for you, Montmorency the Perfume," he avoided the question, reaching forward to gently hold her hands in his own. "I, Guiche de Gramont, only have enough space in this heart for you alone."

That was slick, right? Still, he felt that there was something he was missing…

Just then, he felt something collide into him from behind, sending him tumbling down to the ground below. He felt a surge of annoyance. Which clumsy oaf had dared to interrupt his date with the beautiful Montmorency?

"Guiche! Are you alright?" He heard her sweet voice, her heavenly hand reaching down to grab his. He accepted it with thanks, turning to face whoever had bumped into him.

It was Dalgan Dimwit, the Familiar that the Zero had summoned. He felt that annoyance grow at the audacity of this commoner. Alongside that, however, he felt that perplexing sensation only increase.

Wait… now he remembered! He had challenged him to a duel!

…and then he had lost.

The rage, humiliation and fear he felt upon his loss returned in full force. Again, he challenged that bumbling oaf to a duel. Again, he had nonchalantly accepted it, thinking that he could beat a noble with nothing but his fists alone. Such arrogance!

No… it hadn't been arrogance. He remembered his prided Valkyries being crushed in an instant. He remembered the cold steel licking at his throat. He _distinctly_ recalled the cold sensation of sheer terror gripping at his heart, as he stared with wide eyes at the peasant who in that moment looked to be the personification of death.

It clicked now. He was dreaming! It was all so familiar because it _had _already happened!

And if he was dreaming, he could change the outcome of their battle. He could have his revenge.

He smirked, watching as that fool approached the Vestori Square, other mages surrounding him as he walked. Even from this distance, he could hear that master of his trying to dissuade him from the duel, as he walked toward Guiche without a care in the world. A pity that this would be _very _different indeed from what had really happened. This time, it would be that _peasant_ that lay bruised and battered on the dirt.

Ah, how Brimir smiled upon him. With a twirl of his wand, he summoned forth his warriors that gave him his Runic Name.

"My name is Guiche de Gramont, also known as the Brass!"

Again, that peasant didn't deign to give him the respect he deserved. "Dalgan Dimwit. Peasant."

Now though, in this dream, there would be no tricks that the peasant could pull off. His Valkyries rushed toward the lone figure before him, their spears raised. Sure enough, he had no sword in his hand, and there was no sudden ringing of steel. He hadn't been forced onto his back before he could even process what happened.

The peasant simply stood there, looking at the Valkyries, paralysed with fear. Guiche savoured that expression. At least in this dream, he knew his place.

He wasn't at all prepared for what came next.

Dalgan was speared cleanly through the abdomen, blood splattering out even to where he stood several metres away. Three more spears were thrust into him; neck, arm and thigh. Crimson fluid was rushing out – was there so _much_ blood in a person? – all while Dalgan looked stunned toward him.

Guiche looked, wide-eyed, as he saw the man _die_. His ears were ringing, a chill altogether unlike the one he'd felt earlier in the day running in his veins. The world felt numb.

"_W…hy…_" He heard the sound of his opponent groaning weekly, his body falling unceremoniously to the dirt below. It had only been for a second, but Guiche saw the look of accusation in those eyes. The blood didn't stop pooling. Moments later, Guiche smelled the metallic scent of blood in the air.

Then the haze and numbness that had momentarily clouded over him abruptly cleared. He heard the sound of screaming. When had that started?

"FAMILIAR!" Louise the Zero cried out, pushing aside other students to kneel by her familiar's side. She shoved him desperately, but there was no response.

He looked around. His classmates looked as shocked as himself, and Montmorency and Katie –

\- wait, they hadn't been here, why were they –

"Dalgan!" He saw Kirche rush up toward the husk of a man, exsanguinated before his very eyes, from _his_ doing.

"Guiche…" Montmorency was looking at him, shocked. He wanted to explain himself, wanted to say that he hadn't intended for this to happen. His words came out empty, as he stared into fearful and disbelieving eyes that marred her beautiful face.

When had he fallen onto his hands and knees? He pushed himself up. It took a second before it registered that his hands were stained with blood. He stumbled backward, falling down once more. The blood was pooling now, rising up, surrounding him; he was trapped, he had killed someone, he hadn't _intended _for that to happen, all he wanted was to bruise that foul peasant up a little –

He felt bile rise up within him. He attempted to turn to one side to retch, but try as he might his body was paralysed, fixed upon the gruesome sight before his eyes. The stench was overpowering now, his vision clouding over with red. Louise and Kirche were looking at him, and the expressions on their faces were _haunting_. The others…

The other mages looked at him accusingly. No, no! He wanted to tell them it wasn't his fault, that he didn't mean for any of this to happen. He wanted to tell them it wasn't real, that this was just a dream, that the blood and wetness and smell of rust and the _taste of blood on his tongue wasn't real –_

But he couldn't. Here and now, _everything_ was so deathly steeped in reality.

The world around him was morphing. His classmates were gone. All he could see before him was _blood_, the number of dying and dead _Dalgan's_ multiplying before his very eyes. Two, four, eight, sixteen…

They surrounded him, all of them bearing that same look of despair and accusation; all of them pale and devoid of life, blood pouring as a tide upon him –

\- then the world returned. He was at a table with Montmorency once more.

"…asked about the rumours I heard! Is it true that you're seeing a first-year girl?"

He stammered a response, his heart beating in his chest. He didn't even _know _what he said.

What he knew, was that once more a very-much alive Dalgan Dimwit collided into him. His body and mouth moved automatically, his consciousness trapped within this dream, as he tried desperately to stop himself from issuing that challenge.

To no avail. Dazed, he found himself in Vestori Square once more. Before he could even process that he had no _recollection _of moving there, his Valkyries once again charged toward the peasant.

"FAMILIAR!" he heard that despairing shout again. Again, he smelled blood.

_Please_, he tried to beg. _No more. _He didn't mean for any of this to happen. He didn't want for anyone to die. He didn't want to see that _look_ on his face. Guiche didn't want to see his own twisted smile reflected in the eyes of a dying man. No, he wasn't smiling, he didn't want this to happen –

Again, he had no control, trapped within a dream, as he watched Dalgan Dimwit die again, again, again and _again…_

-o-o-o-

He was _Dream_ing.

Yes, some would argue that wizards couldn't simply turn the name of a spell into a verb, which Dalgan could grudgingly accept as being a fair point.

Some would also argue that what he'd done to the boy was needlessly cruel. There, Dalgan Wintersoul would vehemently disagree.

Guiche de Gramont was a sixteen-year old noble scion to a house that held a fairly great deal of power in Tristain. He needed to learn the price of power_ now_, before the lives of the thousands in his demesne fell into his hands.

It was a bastardisation of a spell that took _Dream_ as its core basis, a spell that normally enabled a projection of himself into the dreamscape of his target. With the few hours that he had earlier in the day, he stitched together a suitable matrix using the background work he had developed months prior, attempting to meld together various aspects of _Dream, Detect Thoughts _and _Mirage Arcane _to a form that would suit his designs.

The final product was woefully inelegant, and he'd resorted to simply adding an additional few layers of complexity to extend the spell to the Eighth Level rather than its much weaker constituents. Many Wizards and Sorcerers tended to alter the potency of their spells with _Metamagics _such as _Extend _and _Empower_, but here he was modifying two existing spells, trimming and altering each of their effects while still allowing for their fusion.

He had no idea what to call it, or if it would even work as desired at the time, but all great magical experiments began this way. With how rigorous the casting of the spell was, any lesser wizard would likely feel a headache for days without the necessary preparation and understanding of the underlying magical formulae. Even for someone close to the pinnacle of magic like himself, a few spells of that level of potency would be sufficient to tax him greatly.

The results had exceeded his own expectations. It was far easier to draw forth an illusion within the dreamscape, since its effects lay beyond the Material Plane, enabling rapid changes in the part of the spell that drew inspiration from _Mirage Arcane_. He had incorporated his own experiences on the battlefield, the grim reality that was combat and warfare, and made sure to give the boy an experience he wouldn't soon forget.

Dalgan never forgot the first time he'd killed a man. He had been a common bandit, one of the thugs that had been threatening his village, part of the event that had started his adventuring career.

He most certainly didn't forget his experiences, years later, fighting in a war that he scarcely had any part in as peasants and soldiers alike died for kings they would never come to see, for a cause they never believed in.

No, he would argue; what he did was necessary. Were he truly a common peasant, Guiche de Gramont would have killed somebody this day. If he was going to be spending time in this world anyway, Dalgan would see to it that the brat learned how to wield his undeserved gift.

He would likely never be quite the same haughty and arrogant child Dalgan had met after that experience, but it was for Guiche's own good.

So he told himself, anyway. He didn't want to dwell on it any further. What's done was done.

He rode on what was left of the spell, transferring his ethereal form to his next target. At least this visit would be far more pleasant.

She hadn't been in a dream, her consciousness instead resting in a state of deep sleep. Focusing on the idea of the very _essence _of Louise de la Vallière, with a twist of the threads of magic, he transferred her consciousness to the environment he'd shaped. It was the study of his own Wizard Tower, bookshelves and furniture exactly where it currently was in the material world, a perfect copy except for the absence of Golem.

"Huh?" she asked, confused as though rousing from a deep sleep. Which she _had, _in a fashion. It was probably for the best that he didn't probe too deep into the nuances of what constituted the waking world. "Where am I?"

She looked around groggily, before stiffening into alertness when she'd looked at him.

"Who are you?" she asked, guarded.

He had, of course, decided to forego his normal form. It took some tinkering with the spell matrix, but he'd adapted the form of his messenger to the greatest Sorcerer he knew, even if he was not one that most had heard of.

"My name is Damian Frostwhisper, Louise de la Vallière," he introduced himself. Ah, if only Damian was here to see just how far he'd come in his studies. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Where am I? How do you know my name? What do you want?"

"Ah, so many questions." He chuckled. "In order: you are dreaming, I know a great many things, and as for what I want…"

He leaned in closer toward her. To her credit, she didn't shy away. "Let's say that I find you a _very_ interesting mage indeed."

"What do you mean?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "How _can_ you be a dream? If you are attempting to kidnap a daughter of the de la Vallière name, I must advise that you –"

"Nothing of that sort." He snorted. Seriously? _Kidnapping? _"You heard about the distinction between Wizards and Sorcerers from your familiar earlier. I happen to –"

"How do you _know_ about that?" she interrupted, backing away slowly. Her fingers drifted to the wand by her side, that he'd gratuitously allowed her dream self to keep despite being pointless for the coming lesson.

"Do not interrupt. As I have told you, Louise de la Vallière, I know a great many things." He looked at her intensely in the eye, appreciating that she hardly even flinched. "I also know that you are one of the most powerful mages in this Academy."

"Are you mocking me?" she hissed. "Everyone knows that I cannot cast a spell, so –"

"I said: do not interrupt."

A slight twist of the flow of the spell sustaining this bizarre dream conversation, and he altered the bit that stemmed from _Mirage Arcane_. She stiffened, no doubt feeling that tactile sensation that to her perspective, seemed to be as though the very air around her had tightened.

"You have a great deal of power, but you lack _control_," he said. "As a Sorcerer, I refuse to see such power languishing away in waste."

"You're a Sorcerer?" she asked pointlessly. "But how did you –"

"Magic," he said simply, forestalling her question. "Magic is not as simple as you mages of Halkegenia understand it to be. Observe."

He waved his hand, and the table levitated. He closed it, and it burst into flames. A snap of his fingers, and it froze completely solid. Then it was melted by acid, transmuted into metal, disintegrated into nothingness, and conjured into being once more.

It did help that it was purely a dreamscape, meaning that he didn't _actually_ have to cast the respective spells, merely altering the active illusion working within the dream.

"You…" Louise stammered, lost for words.

_Well, wasn't that a rare sight. _As far as things went, he thought that he was utterly killingit in his new role as a wise, enigmatic spirit of a Sorcerer from a distant Plane brought here solely for the purpose of enlightening Louise de la Vallière of the literal font of magic swirling within her.

"You didn't have a wand…" her voice trembled. "That's heresy!"

He blinked.

"Who are you, heretic, and what do you want?" she questioned, guarded, her wand raised before her. "I'm warning you –"

He sighed. A mental tug, and the wand appeared in his hands. Really, why had he thought that to be a good idea?

"What the –"

"Please be quiet and listen," he interrupted commandingly. Startled, she fell silent. "I am offering to _teach_ you because you have potential. If you refuse to accept that your Tristainian understanding of magic is severely limited, then my time here is wasted. You shall awaken, and never again know the depths of power you possess. You can remain Louise the Zero, if you so wish."

"_Or,_" he continued, stepping closer to her, peering unwaveringly at her eyes. "I can aid you to harness the power within. You will learn to cast spells, not bounded by the limits of your elements of _Fire, Earth, Wind, Water and Void_, but by the Eight Schools of Magic."

"'Eight Schools of Magic'? What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "Make your choice."

He waited patiently, watching as she warred internally between being (rather understandably) freaked out by a dream-sorcerer wielding powers that went against the teachings of Brimir, greatest mage of Halkegenia, and the prospect, however slim, of actually becoming a _mage_. It wasn't a hard decision.

"How?" she breathed. "How can you teach me?"

He looked down toward her. "You accept my offer, then?"

Another pause. He waited.

"…yes." There was some hesitation, but the underlying intent was firm.

It was acceptable.

"Very well then." He snapped his fingers. Instantly, the expanse of the study of his tower widened many-fold more, furniture neatly compacted against the sides of the room. He ignored the astonished look that Louise was giving him. For what was to come next, he would need his utmost concentration.

It was for this purpose that the engineered Eighth Level spell was as complex as it was. For what he had done with Guiche, a bog-standard _Dream_ straight out of the spellbook of any lesser wizard would have sufficed, although he would have had a lesser degree of control over the _Nightmare_. Now, though, he would need to allow Louise to see the world as _he_ saw it.

He focused, altering the perception of the illusory dreamworld brought by his spell. She would need to see and feel the Weave's threads in real-time, all while in a dreamscape entirely of his own design. The Weave penetrated _all_, barring the dead-magic zones that were the so-called Legacy of Helm. This dreamscape was no exception.

The only reason the spell worked at all was that manipulating events in this World between Planes was far simpler than in any physical world. He was actively remodelling the world that she saw, felt, heard, smelled and tasted through the fraction of this modified _Dream_ spell that was derived from _Mirage Arcane_.

"_What is this_?" she asked, sounding awestruck. Her fingers moved to brush against the threads, and he transmitted the visual movements of the Weave that he saw under _True Seeing_ and its very vibrations to her through the illusion.

He smiled. A little unrefined, but barring simply casting _True Seeing_ on her in the waking world and revealing himself as a wizard, he'd like to say that it was a relative success. Alas, in this dreamscape, the _True Seeing _spell wouldn't take hold, since there was no true _material _with which to shape the spell.

Perhaps he could publish this modified spell in time to come. Golem could probably work at a manuscript while he was on vacation.

Funny. He'd never taken on an apprentice before, but now he was in a whole other world a quarter of the Astral Sea away from Toril, masquerading as a Sorcerer to teach a Wild Mage (who wasn't actually one) how to wield the power running in her veins. To top that off, his solution was to conduct his lessons in a dreamscape, using a spell of his own design, when a simple _True Seeing_ would have sufficed.

As far as analogies went, it was like using a _Mighty Fortress_ to conjure a _Leomond's Tiny Hut_.

Well, there were first times for everything, he supposed.

"This, Louise de la Vallière, is your classroom." He tossed the wand over to her – a crutch for her spellcasting, but for these first lessons he would allow it. "Let us begin."

-o-o-o-

"There are Eight Schools of Magic," he instructed, the sigils of each School appearing in the air before him as he spoke. "Evocation, Transmutation, Illusion, Enchantment, Divination, Necromancy, Abjuration and Conjuration. Each of them is guided by different principles, that we will discuss in future lessons if you prove worthy."

She straightened at that. If she still doubted the truth behind his offer, the possibility of it being retracted would ensure that she took this lesson seriously.

"First of all: what you are seeing all around are the threads of the Weave. It connects all of Creation to the essence of magic, and by tugging on these distant strands, we bring a fraction of its power to our world."

For emphasis, he pretended to cast a simple _Ice Knife, _altering the _Mirage _to show him materialising and throwing the dagger into the ground. Accordingly, he mimicked the twisting of the Weave, demonstrating how verbal, somatic and material components of the spell each shaped and vibrated the strands in turn.

She still looked doubtful, but at least she remained silent, gazing unwaveringly at the ethereal threads given form. For good reason; he still remembered the feeling of awe when he first interacted with the Weave, and the same feeling that returned when he finally _visualised_ it first with _Detect Magic_ and then _True Seeing_ years later. Now, she was being thrust into that all at once.

"This power can be invoked through voice, movement or reagents," he said. "You will come to know them as verbal, somatic, and material components of a spell. This is the basis of all magic, including that of Halkegenia."

"Where do we begin?" she asked, a tone of fervent determination in her voice. Excellent, indeed.

"From the very basics." He held out a palm, speaking a short incantation. The Weave reorganised its threads, shaping itself into a hand-like structure, as though physically being stitched and sewn by his will. "This spell is known as _Mage Hand._"

As far as Cantrips went, this was probably one of the easiest to learn. It had also been the first spell he'd ever cast, and there was a certain kind of poetry in imparting it to Louise.

She stepped closer, poking and prodding at it, marvelling at how the structure taken by the threads of magic gave it a semi-physical form. It was an exercise in control and shaping, which he suspected Louise sorely needed.

He waited patiently as she observed the spectral construct. When at last her curiosity was abated, she turned back toward him.

"What is the incantation? What do I picture in my mind?"

Ah. Right. The spells of her world were steeped in well-defined rules. He remembered what had been written down into that excuse of a spell-book of hers.

"There is no incantation," he said. "Or more accurately: there is _any _incantation. It is not the words themselves, but the pattern and specific resonance of the voice that gives the spell its form. Work with Body, Mind and Voice in harmony to shape the spell."

Once again, he demonstrated the spell, deliberately switching how he spoke and moved. He screeched the words, as he'd seen many Bards do before in the past, then switched to a low, funereal tone. He altered the diction and rhythm of his words, feeling the feedback through the world around him, moving and speaking_ in tandem_ with the Weave.

She did nothing to hide her astonishment, her mouth gaping open, in complete contrast to the usual mask she wore. It was understandable, seeing as that demonstration probably shattered every bit of magical knowledge accumulated by Halkegenia over the last several thousand years.

Still, the lesson had to continue.

"Now you try."

She looked toward him, stunned and uncertain. "N- now?"

"A wiza –" he corrected himself. Right now, he was supposed to be Damian Frostwhisper, _Sorcerer_, not Dalgan. "A _Sorcerer_ cannot doubt his own abilities. Question everything, but doubt _nothing_. Now, _try."_

He stepped back, eyeing her intensely. This was the difficult part. He would need to model just what was happening as it happened. To any lesser wizard, it would have been close to impossible, but Dalgan relished the challenge.

Hesitantly, she began to speak, watching as the threads moved feebly.

"More resonance," he encouraged. "Find the pattern. _Feel_ with your mind and body."

Slightly emboldened, still fidgeting with the wand in her hands, she furrowed her eyebrows, and _Spoke_.

The threads of magic promptly dissolved into chaos. A timely wave of his hand and a subversion of her spellcasting through _Counterspell_ was all that stopped an explosion of arcane energy from occurring in the dream world.

"What was _that_?" she asked in a slight accusing tone, once she had recovered from the shock. "You said that I could cast –"

"I said I could help you _control_ your magic," he corrected. "What you saw is what normally happens in your spellcasting. You interact with the Weave far more strongly than any of your peers. Accordingly, it means that you need a significantly higher degree of control in order to cast _any_ spell."

Again, she looked stunned. Well, being enlightened as to the reason of her continued failures in a dream was an odd experience, he supposed.

He thought over it a little more, then shrugged. What he was about to reveal next couldn't really hurt him _that_ much. Who knows, maybe she could feel slightly guilty for her treatment of Dalgan Dimwit? It would be good to escape doing _chores_, even if they were laughably easy to a wizard.

"It is for this same reason that you have caught my interest," he said truthfully. "Incidentally, it is also why the ritual that you used to summon your familiar was overpowered for your intended purpose. You brought your familiar from an entirely different _world_. Congratulations, by the way. I can count the number of Sorcerers capable of such a feat on my fingers alone."

"He was telling the truth?" Some of that disbelief returned.

He nodded. Good of her to question what she'd been told, although he wished it was directed to more deserving subjects.

"How do I know that _you_ are telling the truth?" she asked with narrowed eyes.

"Do you _want_ to return to the waking world?" he retorted in return. "I could end our lesson here, now, if that would convince you."

"No!" she replied immediately. "Let's continue."

He hid a smile as she again worked at the spell. This time, she was far more judicious in the use of the frankly ridiculous sensitivity she had with the Weave, beginning slowly and working her way up.

It was difficult work, but it was entirely what he expected. While he hadn't begun his studies into the arcane with the enormous teaching aid that was the equivalent of _True Seeing_, it had taken days of study before he finally understood the underlying theory well enough, and then weeks of practice before he could finally maintain the spell's form and structure to a satisfactory degree.

He allowed Louise to continue at her own pace, carefully watching her. It seemed he didn't need to intervene as much as he'd initially thought, since she was taking deliberate care not to overexcite the Weave, relying on the visual and tactile feedback of his illusory space. It was fascinating, seeing just how _sensitive _the fibres of the Weave were to her voice. He couldn't wait to see how she functioned with more complex spells, and how it would factor into the advancement of his own studies.

His plan was truly working far better than he'd thought.

Still, though, after close to an hour, she'd only just managed to have enough control to reproducibly thrum at the strings, but not shape or alter their resonance in any way. It was at least an improvement, since she knew how _not_ to bring the usual explosive effect to her spells.

Unfortunately, the lesson had to end. Even he needed rest to refresh the mind.

"Stop," he ordered. She turned toward him, a newfound fire and driven look on her face. "Our lesson ends here."

"I can still continue –" she tried arguing.

"_I _need to rest," he interrupted. "I have been helping you visualise the Weave for the past hour."

She looked at him guiltily, as though she hadn't considered that fact. Come to think of it, she probably hadn't. How ungrateful –

"Thank you."

Huh. And there she went subverting his expectations.

"Don't get used to it," he warned. "Once you gain a notion of control, I'm not allowing you to rely on this crutch."

"Yes!" she hurriedly agreed. Then, more hesitantly, she broached the question clearly tugging at her mind. "…will I see you again?"

Oh, right. He had threatened to stop the lessons if she didn't meet his expectations, right? At least she'd not questioned the truth of the illusory dream he'd created. Perhaps she was just that desperate to grasp onto any straw that might allow her to learn to control her spells.

"I will visit you in another dream," he said. Instantly, her face lit up, before she schooled it once more. How unfortunate; he much preferred her when she lowered her inhibitions. "In the meantime, attempt practising the spell without my assistance, but make sure not to overload it."

"I will," she promised. "Thank you again, Damian Frostwhisper."

How sweet, she remembered his fake name.

"Just address me as Damian." The Sorcerer had never been one for formality. "See you."

With that, he snapped his fingers, and returned to his body once more, while Louise returned to her sleep.

That had been more entertaining than he'd thought it would be. Perhaps he _should_ give further thought to taking up an apprentice under his wing once he returned to Mel'Rolem.

Something to consider at a later date. For now, though, dreams awaited him.

-o-o-o-

Unbeknownst to Dalgan, Louise was dreaming.

She was sitting on a simple wooden chair, sheets of paper lying scattered on the table in front of her. A large circle occupied the very centre of each page, lines of calculations and notes littering the margins of the parchment. Lines upon lines had been repeatedly crossed out, while many others were heavily underlined and circled multiple times. At last, this was the finished product.

She didn't know what it _was_, and yet at the same time she knew precisely what it was. The dichotomy she currently felt was the stuff of dreams, ever-ethereal, slipping from her grasp each time she tried to contextualise and understand just what she was experiencing.

At the same time, she knew that the pattern before her was _order_, bringing substance to what was by definition chaotic and shifting. She understood the theory at the heart of it all, how the pieces fit together in an intricate way with a hitherto unseen elegance and beauty. The problem was _getting_ them to fit together. The problem had been gnawing at her for a few weeks now.

She brought her hand before her – far rougher and showing more signs of manual labour than she'd worked in her life – and began picturing the pattern.

_A wizard's mind is calm. A wizard's mind is calm. A wizard's mind is calm._ She repeated the mantra that she'd adopted over the past weeks, one that she hoped would calm her mind to a state that would enable the casting of the spell.

She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled. She reached out with both body and mind, attempting to feel for the '_substance'_ that had slipped through her grasp many times already.

Her mind was clear. The pattern and the many calculations she had seen moments before were all that occupied its space now. Again, she inhaled, and then began to chant.

"_Nix… Polem… Daktur…" _The words themselves made no sense. Diction and rhythm were all that mattered, and she spoke gibberish that felt most natural, feeling with every sense for the changes that would mark the casting of the spell.

She altered the pattern. "_Makdumm… Rokarrr… Lokast…. –"_

_There!_ She felt _something_ back then. She spoke another word. "_Rambuk…"_

There was power manifesting, that much was clear. The question was how to proceed from there? How could she achieve the pattern that still took centre-stage in her mind? It was the stumbling block that had prevented any progression for a week now.

The answer was obvious, and yet difficult in practice. She couldn't stop casting now. With the threads in motion, she would need to shape it. The question was _how_.

She moved her hands, speaking the words and feeling for the changes in the world that touched both body and mind. She was _so _close, she could practically feel it in her bones.

It was a giant balancing act, attempting to draw upon the heart of all magic at just the right amplitude, volume, frequency, rate of flow, and every other physical characteristic that could possibly be attached to a metaphysical entity. It was chaos, it was order, and it was _beautiful._

_Something _clicked. She tugged in a way that she couldn't quite describe, and the power folded. She seized upon that feeling, tugging again and again, while still _Speaking_ to maintain the… shape? Physicality? She didn't quite know what the perfect word was to describe it.

It was close, now. She was growing excited, but she had to rein it in. _A wizard's mind is calm_, she thought, while still not letting go of the matrix in her mind. Voice and body were still in motion.

Then there was a sound of a door creaking. Startled, she flung her hands outward, her eyes opening wide. She lost all concentration, and the shaping stopped, but for an instant just between herself and the door –

\- for an instant, just before it disappeared, she _saw_ it.

_Mage Hand_.

She looked toward the door. She saw a boy, a peasant probably, based on his attire. Like herself, his eyes were wide with surprise. Then he dashed gleefully toward her, cutting the distance between them in less than a second, hugging her tightly.

"I knew it! I knew you could do it!" the boy shouted, not letting up all the while. "You're a wizard! I knew it!"

She was feeling stunned by it all. It took a moment before the words sank in.

_Wizard._

She had cast a spell. It was _Mage Hand, _a mere _Cantrip _known to virtually any spellcaster, but _she was a_ _Wizard_.

It took another moment for her to begin protesting against the arms wrapped around her.

"Let go, Damian!" the words didn't sound quite like her voice. It came from a male, but in her dream-addled state Louise didn't question it. If anything, that bone-crushing hug only grew tighter. "Let go already, you doofus!"

It was only after several seconds before Damian obliged, looking toward her with happiness and pride. "You did it! You cast _Mage Hand!"_

"I didn't _cast_ it," she retorted. "The spell fizzled out, by _your_ timely interruption, I would add. In fact –"

Damian reached out and closed a palm around her mouth, silencing her. "Don't be so pessimistic! Do it again!"

He stepped away, moving off to one side as he leaned against the wall. Hesitantly, Louise looked at him, then looked at the calculations and scribbling she'd made once more. Perhaps she'd made a mistake somewhere –

"You've been looking over those for weeks already!" Her head was forcefully turned away from the parchment. "It's a _perfect _matrix. You just need to cast it!"

"But –"

"You've done it once," Damian said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Do it again."

He looked at her for a second longer, and she nodded hesitantly. Right. Wizards had no room for doubt. Damian retreated to stand against the wall, looking at her encouragingly.

She closed her eyes. _A wizard's mind is calm. A wizard's mind is calm. A wizard's mind is – _

_\- calm. _With that final word, she reached out once more, and began the spell's incantation. Again, she warred between the twin opposites of bringing the substance of magic into motion, and working to ensure that it wasn't too chaotic to be shaped and handled.

She had done it once, and she would do it again.

She didn't know how long it had taken, but eventually, once again she fell into the rhythm of things. _Mage Hand _was an exercise in shaping. _Keep magic in motion. Fold. Keep magic in motion. Fold. Turn. Magic in motion. Fold. Repeat._

At last, the rush of power stabilised, and she opened her eyes.

In front of her, a hand beckoned. A thought sent it moving toward Damian, who was looking on with pride. With a wave of his own hand, he conjured his own _Mage Hand_, and the two met in the middle in a high-five.

They looked toward each other for a moment, before breaking down into twin peals of laughter at the ridiculousness of it all at the same time.

"You did it," Damian said, once they finally recovered, a wide grin still stretched across his face. "You really did it."

"I did," she agreed, a smile of her own forming. All those weeks of work hadn't been wasted. She _knew_ that she could do it. "I'm a Wizard."

Sure, she may have taken minutes to do what Damian could do in seconds, but she would improve in time. For now, she had proven that she had _earned_ the gift of magic through the many sleepless nights she had spent poring over the few texts she could procure in the village and any tips she could get from passing adventurers.

"We'll make it one day," Damian said, bringing an arm across her shoulder. "_Frostwhisper _and _Cinderblaze_. We'll slay dungeons, rescue dragons and explore princesses."

She snorted. As usual, Damian just _had_ to fool around at a moment like this.

"You mean explore dungeons, slay dragons, and rescue princesses."

"Sure, sure," Damian waved her aside with his usual indifference. He looked at her, still grinning. "What do you think? _Frostwhisper _and _Cinderblaze_?"

She thought about it, her smile growing. "I like the sound of that."

"It's settled, then. We'll become adventurers, the greatest that Faerûn has ever seen." Damian looked at her, his eyes shining. "I don't say this often enough, but I'm proud of you, oh brother of mine."

With that, Louise awoke from her dream, returning to her room in the Tristain Academy of Magic, her heart thumping rapidly.

She remembered the meeting with Damian Frostwhisper, the Sorcerer who somehow met her in a dream. His figure was heavily shrouded, but he had exuded a presence in the expanse of that large, circular room. She could still remember the sense of wonder she felt as she saw the many interwinding threads in that room, moving in tandem with his magic. Was it all a dream? Had her mind conjured a foolish idea for her to chase, taunting her for her failures even while she slept?

She remembered the second dream. Everything there had felt so _real_. She remembered how it had felt casting the _Mage Hand_, and she remembered the sensation of power that buzzed all around as she concentrated on the spell.

Hesitantly, as though afraid to disprove herself, she began to speak, just as she'd done in her lesson with Damian Frostwhisper. She didn't quite dare to approach it with her usual gusto, now that she knew just _why_ she was a failure of a mage, but –

It worked. She _felt_ the sensation that had been there in her dream, only now it was reduced to the tiniest of fractions that it had been before. Without Damian's aid, she would never have been aware of its presence, much less being able to perceive it.

What had that second dream been, then? Was that one of Damian's memories from the time he was a young teenager? He _did _call himself Frostwhisper…

Was he attempting to help her in her lessons, showing her that he too started out from nothing? But who had she been in the dream? Damian called her _brother_, but why had he shown her that?

She had many questions. Still, though, she was more content than she had been in a long time. A day before, she summoned a _familiar._ Today, she _felt _magic. She had a teacher now, one who had put in the time to help her despite never before having met him. She could only imagine what sort of spell he had used, but it must have been heavily taxing. What sort of element even was –

No, she couldn't think of spells by their elements anymore. Which _School_ of Magic had that spell belonged to?

She looked to the side. Her familiar was sleeping, a content smile on his face. He may have seemed like an absent-minded and silly familiar, but now that she knew his story she could forgive him for that. It couldn't have been easy in that world of his.

_Faerûn_. Damian Frostwhisper said that he and his brother would be the greatest adventurers in Faerûn.

Did Damian enter her dreams, because he'd felt the magic she had used to summon her familiar? Would that also mean that Dalgan could find a way to return home? Would she come to lose her familiar in time?

She didn't want that to happen. Odd, unpredictable and utterly stupid at times though he may be, she had seen just how _tired_ his eyes were when he'd told her how his world had been. Now, Damian had as much as confirmed that his words had been the truth.

She smiled softly at her familiar's sleeping form, a sense of guilt welling within. He would need better lodgings than a bundle of hay. The next Void Day, she would bring him to the nearby town to purchase proper bedding. Perhaps she could look into getting him a proper weapon befitting the station of a former knight, too.

For the next few days, however, she would be hard at work. She had a goal now, and a master Sorcerer who knew how to help her. Never again would she be a Zero.

As she drifted off to sleep, those words were all that she thought of.

_Never again._

Unbeknownst to both Louise de la Vallière and Dalgan Wintersoul, in the time that she had been dreaming, the runes on his hand had been _glowing._

* * *

**Two-thirds of the way to the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words! Hopefully these two chapters were enjoyable, rather than sounding like the batshit insane ramblings of a madman.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! Some people have misunderstood my note in the previous chapter to say that the story ends at 50000 words. I intend to continue the story past that, but that was more of the writing goal I had for the month. Planning to write at a slower pace now.**

* * *

When Dalgan Wintersoul next awoke, it was to the sound of a loud explosion.

Instantly, he bolted upright, _True Seeing _piercing through the cloud of dust that obscured his normal sight. An ambush? He was about to cast a spell that would capture any would-be attacker – an _Investiture of Ice_ would do nicely to freeze his immediate surroundings – when he saw the face of none other than Louise de la Vallière coughing from within the dense cloud.

It took another moment to link the facts together, before he sighed, slouching over while disentangling his mind from the complex intertwining spell-circles that marked the Transmutation spell of the Sixth Level. When he'd told the girl to practice while in his guise as Damian, he should have clarified to practice _away_ from others.

Well, _there_ went any hope of a longer period of rest.

Outside, shouts of 'ZERO!' and 'LOUISE!' were quickly building, indicating that the other students had caught on. How common of an occurrence was this, for them to suspect her doing rather than an assailant of any sort?

"Lady Louise?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

Come to think of it, why was she even awake and practising so early? He glanced out of the window, smoke trailing out through it. It could only have been an hour past sunrise.

…for that matter, didn't they have class soon?

"Dalgan!" He saw her stiffen in surprise through the cloud that separated them both.

"Lady Louise," he greeted once more, rising to his feet. Through the smoke, she couldn't quite see him, and he took the opportunity to cleanse himself with his daily ritual of _Prestidigitation_. "What's got you so enthusiastic?"

He stretched lightly, waiting patiently for the dust to clear. Rude awakening aside, the events of the night before had been rather interesting. It seemed that the tutoring of his student-master (their relationship was quickly starting to get complex) wasn't about to go to waste.

"I…" Now that she could see her with both _True Seeing_ and regular sight, she was visibly flustered, averting her gaze from him. "I was inspired!"

He waited for further explanation, but none seemed to be forthcoming. Well, the girl could reveal whatever she wished, he supposed. From her outburst yesterday, he gathered that the casting of spells without a focus was not only impossible, it was _heretical._

"Well…" She fidgeted with the wand that was loosely held in one hand. "It's time for breakfast! Let's go, Familiar!"

He blinked, bewildered and bemused. The girl had even changed to the Academy's attire in the time he had been sleeping. Had his teaching truly motivated her that much?

He followed her out of the room, tidying himself up with yet another _Prestidigitation _to clear what dust had managed to cling to his person while she wasn't looking. Silently, he trailed behind her, while she contemplated whatever it was she was thinking of.

"Say, Dalgan," she finally spoke up, slowing down to walk by his side in one of the long footpaths of the Academy. This early in the morning, there were still few students out and about. He looked at her in acknowledgement. She continued. "Have you heard of the name 'Damian Frostwhisper'?"

It took all of his willpower not to burst out in a coughing fit at the unexpected question. There he was, thinking that she intended to keep their lessons to secrecy.

Well, he could be an exception, he supposed. Much of what he had told her while as Dalgan Dimwit, peasant, could also be seen as heresy. It was actually starting to get confusing keeping track of who he told what in his different guises, despite only starting to use that spell the night before.

Come to think of it, this was an _excellent_ opportunity to mess with the girl. He liked to think that his deceased brother would enjoy living vicariously through him, in whichever afterlife he may dwell in.

"D – did you say _Frostwhisper,_ Lady Vallière?" he stammered, pausing sharply in his step.

A pity that he didn't have a fragile object in his hands to drop to truly sell his performance. Still, the resultant loud _stomp_ almost made her jump in surprise, before she wheeled around to face him, startled.

"You _know_ him?" she asked. "Tell me –"

"Know him? Is there a soul in Faerûn who _hasn't _heard of _the_ Frostwhisper?" he interrupted, sounding as incredulous as he could. "Damian Frostwhisper, the _Archmage_? One of the Slayers of Kil'rom the White Scourge? A Conqueror of the Bleak Spires of Risfold? Saviour of Mel'Rolem? Banisher of the Planar Sphere?"

"The _Wrath of Winter? Spellweaver? He Who Knows A Hundred Spells? Ender of Calamity? Evil's Bane? Permafrost? Sorcerer Supreme?" _He picked up speed as he spoke, stepping closer, not giving her any room to get a word in edgewise. "_That_ Damian Frostwhisper?"

…was it considered tooting his own horn, if he was attributing some of the silly titles and accomplishments he'd gathered to his brother, whilst in the guise of a peasant?

"How do _you_ know the _Frostwhisper_, Lady Vallière?" he asked, breathing heavily as he slowed down the rapid stream of words, adopting a tone of curiosity. "I thought that you knew nothing of Faerûn?"

She squirmed uncomfortably. Perhaps she may have been planning to reveal the dream and lessons she'd had the night before, but knowing now the fake accolades (well, some of them _were _real) that Damian Frostwhisper had earned, along with the heavily overdone frenzied zeal he'd spontaneously burst into, she must have been having second thoughts about revealing that secret.

"Never you mind!" She continued walking, coming up with a flimsy excuse. "I thought… I mean, I heard of him somewhere, but never really connected it…"

Her voice trailed off helplessly. He spared her mercifully, not following up on his line of questioning. While entertaining, perhaps it was venturing a _little _deep into the territory of arrogance. Shaking his head, he resumed walking silently behind her.

Along the way to the dining hall, they came across Guiche, slowly walking just in front of them. His blonde hair was dishevelled, his attire unruly, completely unlike the brat that had duelled him yesterday.

"Guiche?" Louise spoke, and the boy tensed. He turned around, stiffening as he saw Dalgan. His face blanched, turning pale.

"L- Louise," he stammered uncharacteristically. "D- D- D- Dalgan."

Damn. His spell must have affected the kid more heavily than he thought. Now that he saw him, there were very clear dark rings around his eyes, as though he hadn't obtained a single wink of sleep after he'd departed from his dreams.

Maybe he _had_ overdone it a little. Perhaps two or three cycles of the nightmare would have been enough, rather than the ten to twenty times he'd subjected the kid to the version of events that were completely the opposite of what had truly happened during their duel.

Louise looked apprehensively between her familiar and Guiche, likely misinterpreting the situation. "Guiche…"

"Relax, kid." He stepped forward, only for Guiche to take more than a few steps back, eyes wide with terror. He sighed.

Yup. Last night had definitely been overkill. He hoped that this absolute terror extended only as far as Dalgan himself and that he now knew to consider the consequences _before_ casting a spell. He hoped that he hadn't accidentally given the kid a fear of blood and death.

Now he owed the kid a favour or something. Let it not be said that Dalgan Wintersoul didn't pay his dues. He would work out the logistics of it at a later date.

"I…" Guiche's eyes darted around rapidly, not once daring to look Dalgan in the eye. "I'll see you later!"

With that, he practically dashed away, leaving a worried Louise and a Dalgan with a rising headache in his wake.

"Do you think he's alright?" She stared off in the direction he'd retreated.

To be honest, it was hard to say. Abyss below, he was actually starting to feel guilty.

"About the duel yesterday…"

"I know." He sighed, massaging at his temple wearily. "I'll apologise later."

He would do so, both in person and in some dream-guise while he thought up a suitable method apology. Now that the spell was proven to work for instructive purposes, he may as well see it put to good use.

They continued walking toward the dining hall. At the door, he paused, expecting to have to return to his _Mansion_ for food while being ordered to stay with the other familiars.

Surprisingly, she made no comment, walking past the threshold. He coughed politely.

"Lady Louise," he said as she looked back toward him. "I suppose I shall see you later."

It took a moment before she realised what he was talking about. She frowned.

"What are you doing? Come along," she beckoned. "No Familiar of the de la Vallière name will be seen starving."

He raised an eyebrow, stepping past the doorway. "I thought that familiars weren't allowed in the dining hall?"

"I'm a _mage_," she said testily, that same fire he'd seen in the dream the night before rising up within her. "I summoned the first _human_ familiar from _another world_. Anyone with grievances can take it up with _me_."

…well, well. Some of his tutelage must have rubbed off on her.

He was, dare he say it, impressed, and more than a little surprised. Was his teaching truly worth _that_ much? He could scarcely wait for the end of this vacation, when he revealed the truth of just who he was and what he'd been doing.

The pay-out would be _glorious._

He didn't say any of that aloud, of course. Wordlessly, he continued trudging through the corridors, entering the grand dining hall for the first time. It wasn't the most opulent one he'd seen, since he'd been in the courts of kings and emperors many times before, but it wouldn't have looked out of place in a grand palace.

Louise stepped up to one of the chairs, pulled it away from the table, and sat. Again, Dalgan paused, remembering her words in the classroom just barely an hour after he'd been summoned.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked. "Sit!"

No harping around on some drivel about a _mage's seat_? No overwhelming sense of superiority or arrogance? Come to think of it, some of that usual haughtiness was lost, and she looked simultaneously distracted and enthusiastic.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Louise de la Vallière?" he couldn't resist blurting out.

"Huh?" she asked, distracted. "What are you talking about? Hurry up and sit!"

He complied without further argument, knowing just what was on her mind. He'd thought his instruction would help point her in the right direction, not completely change her outlook on life and magic. Being unable to successfully cast a spell, coupled with the ridicule and mockery of her peers must have truly been worse for her self-esteem than he thought.

Together, they sat at the table, the only two people in the dining hall that early in the morning. By his side, he could hear Louise muttering and chanting softly, and he felt how the Weave was repeatedly being stirred and woven, but never substantially enough to be given structure and form.

Unseen by Louise, he smiled wryly. Dalgan Dimwit, familiar to Louise de la Vallière, was pretending to be Damian Frostwhisper, his own brother, teaching Louise in an odd dream apprenticeship. This vacation was turning out to be more bizarre than he thought.

He'd chosen an interesting one indeed to teach. He couldn't complain if any future would-be apprentice of his showed the same degree of industry.

-o-o-o-

"You've been practising."

Louise's head snapped toward the origin of the voice, only just barely remembering to continue incanting to maintain the vibrations of the threads before her. Hastily, she looked back in front. She altered the rate of her speech, regaining the lost momentum in the time she had been distracted, before settling into her rhythm once more.

How was Damian Frostwhisper able to sneak up on her like that? She would have glared at him, but it was taking all of her concentration just to focus on providing just the right amount of reverberation in her voice for the desired resonance of the Weave's fibres. From the side, he heard her teacher chuckle.

Three days of nearly-constant practice in Tristain in the time she had outside of classes (and even _during_ some classes, when she wasn't being observed), and she still barely had any amount of progress. It was frustrating, but it was _progress_. Now, she could reliably find just the right manner of incanting in order to draw upon the otherworldly energy all around her, without causing an explosion.

The problem lay in _shaping_. She remembered the sensation from that dream three nights before, where she had been playing the role of Damian's brother, and tried to draw upon that. She _knew_ the steps she needed to take, but try as she might the way she interacted with the Weave was vastly different from her dream-self in that particular instance. Without physically seeing the threads as she currently was, she had no hope of completing the spell.

It was why she had been beyond ecstatic when she once more found herself in that large, circular chamber in what felt like no time since she'd fallen asleep. Damian Frostwhisper had been standing just before her, barely even exchanging greetings, before he'd cast whatever spell it was that so beautifully enabled her to perceive the very substance of magic that had eluded her for so long.

After that, he'd simply told her to proceed, and she jumped into it without hesitation.

She was so close. The spell was right therein front of her. All she needed to do now was to take the fibres that she'd set into motion, gather them up, and fold and turn them in a way that would form the structure of the _Mage Hand_. She had even felt it being done back in the dream with a significantly younger Damian.

Experimentally, she tried grabbing at the fibres, enforcing her will as her hands plucked at the threads, but in doing so she lost focus on her incantation, altering their characteristics in a way that prevented her from interacting with them for the purpose of shaping. It was horribly vexing.

She continued, determined to impress her new teacher. None of the professors in the Academy had believed in her, much less _praised_ her as a powerful mage. They put up with her, for sure, never expelling or punishing her, but she wanted to be known for her own achievements rather than simply riding on the de la Vallière name. This Sorcerer saw potential in her, and she would not let him down.

"_Malass…" _she chanted, her words soft but clear. She'd given up on attempting any sort of meaning, going with whatever sounds _seemed_ right. "_Ruparr…"_

She couldn't quite describe exactly how it felt to her senses as she set the Weave in motion, but her closest descriptor would be that it began growing _hot_. Hot, and firm. It was as though they were hardening, allowing for her to grab and shape them as though moulding clay, only she was using something beyond just her hands alone. The fibres moved by her will, and encouraged, she continued speaking.

"_Walamil –" _

_Too much_. It grew too hot, almost unbearably so, and she braced for the incoming catastrophic destabilisation –

"_Nex."_

With that one word from Damian, the Weave returned to its native state, cool and incorporeal (or at least as much as a metaphysical substance could be).

"Gah!" She lowered her hands in frustration, before stiffening and straightening herself. _Rule of Steel_. A de la Vallière must always be in control. Schooling her expression and posture, she turned to regard Damian. He had a small smirk on his face, much like her classmates every time she failed a spell.

Internally, she felt something cold grip at her heart. _Please, he couldn't be disappointed in her too – _

"You _are_ allowed to feel frustrated, you know," he leaned back into the chair. Since when had there even _been_ a chair in the room? "Some Sorcerers perform best in an emotional state, but I personally find spell structures far easier to visualise and execute when calm."

Had she been that obvious? Mother would be so disappointed in her. She'd already written to ask about her progress in her studies, but Louise hadn't yet thought of a suitable reply. She doubted that Karin de la Vallière would react kindly to her familiar being a peasant from a faraway land, even if he was a former knight.

"Take a few minutes to calm yourself down," Damian advised. Abruptly, the spell he'd been using to extend her senses lifted, and she felt a sense of loss. "Besides, until you begin to have an instinctive grasp over interacting with the Weave, _True Seeing _will only stunt your later growth."

With a snap of his fingers, a chair appeared just in front of him, and he gestured for her to sit.

Even if she wanted to continue, she couldn't quite do so, since working at casting _Mage Hand_ was far more difficult without his assistance. Besides, now that she thought about it, she was starting to feel a little tired from the practice. With no other choice, she obliged.

"_True Seeing?_" she questioned at the use of the unfamiliar term.

"Normally, it's what is used to visualise the Weave. The spell enables one to see things the way they actually are."

She was about to further question on that, but he interrupted. "Don't ask right now – you don't have the necessary background to even _begin_ to understand the many nuances of that statement. Not your fault," he backtracked, when she was about to again argue at that fact. How was he predicting her that easily? Was she that obvious? "That particular spell is six orders of magnitude more complex than _Mage Hand_. Suffice to say, you won't be learning to cast that any time soon."

Her face fell, crestfallen. That sounded like such a useful spell, if she could use it at will. She could continue practising back in Tristain, without having to rely on the few hours they had in the occasion where Damian initiated contact with her. She wished she could ask him for more frequent lessons, or perhaps to even visit in person, but as things were he was already going far out of his way to assist her. Simply because she had _potential._

"I tried to practise back in the Academy. Without seeing the Weave, it's just so much more difficult," she told him. She needed him to understand that she put in effort. He couldn't put these lessons to an end. "And tomorrow…"

She trailed off, and she felt a heat rise at her cheeks. She didn't need to bother him with her silly plans for the day. He was a Sorcerer! He was supposedly known throughout Faerûn, for Brimir's sake!

"Tomorrow?" he questioned.

"It's Void Day," she said reluctantly, embarrassed. "I was planning to take my familiar to town to purchase some bedding and a proper sword. He's a former knight, and –"

She shut her mouth before she embarrassed herself further. She didn't need to involve her mentor who took the time out of what must be a busy schedule that involved saving _kingdoms_, from what Dalgan told her, to teach a mage from another world like herself.

She snuck a peek at Damian. His lips were twitching into a smile, and she felt that rush of embarrassment return. Gah!

Thankfully, she was mercifully saved form further awkwardness when he returned the subject back to her studies.

"Do not fret. Your progress is admirable."

She didn't really think so. Tabitha and Kirche were capable of casting far stronger spells, and here she was starting from what Damian had declared were the absolute _basics_. She heard a long, drawn out sigh, before she felt herself being forcefully turned to face him, her chair screeching against the floor.

"A strong foundation is the most important part of any Sorcerer's or Wizard's studies," he said seriously. Though his face was shrouded, she could feel power radiating off from him. "_Mage Hand_ is an exercise in control. I had expected you to find more trouble with finding the right operational range of resonance in order to begin crafting the spectral construct, given your extreme sensitivity to the Weave, but you have already far exceeded my expectations."

…it wasn't even entirely her work. She had remembered the distinct sensation of how it had felt during that dream where she had been this _Cinderblaze_, Damian's brother. It was only made clearer when she was able to visualise the actual threads of magic moments before. Were it not for that, she doubted that she would have been able to even progress that far.

"You're just saying that," she mumbled. He looked at her sharply, and eyebrow raised, and she felt a need to explain. "With one _word_, you controlled my magic, and stopped the explosion from happening. I take _minutes_ just to start finding the right frequency."

He snorted irreverently, folding his arms over his head. In that regard, he was completely unlike the noble mages of Tristain.

But then again, he wasn't of Tristain, was he?

"You're referring to _Counterspell_?" he asked. Was that the name of the spell he'd used? "I've known how to cast it for close to fifteen years, girl. It'd be embarrassing if I can't set it into motion within a second. Sorcerers and Wizards live and die by the spell."

"When can I learn how to cast that?" She could see the many applications of that spell. Oh, yes, how she would love to see Kirche's face when she stopped her flames mid-cast –

"Depends on your progress, really. Weeks? A few months? A year?" He shrugged. "It's a Third Level spell, but can be bolstered to as high as Ninth Level."

"What does that mean?" She furrowed her brows, confused. If _True Seeing_ was a Sixth Level spell, it couldn't be that hard, could it?

"Ah, right. I haven't explained how spell classifications work, have I?" Damian waved his hands, and before Louise's eyes numerous glyphs and runes that she couldn't even begin to understand appeared. "Spells range from the simplest of cantrips to the most potent of Ninth Level spells. The most gifted are capable of pushing beyond that barrier, and legends say that the only time a Twelfth Level spell had been used allowed the caster to turn into a _God."_

"You mean like Brimir?" she asked automatically.

"Much more powerful, probably. It is said that _Karsus' Avatar _destroyed the Weave, and led to the collapse of the ancient civilisation of Netheril. Historians claim that no one could access arcane magic for years following Karsus' Folly." He shrugged, and her eyes boggled at how nonchalant he was acting about this. That sounded… _unreal_… "Do not misunderstand. From the records of his deeds, Brimir seemed to be a powerful mage. Still, I suspect that most of the effects of his magic could be replicated by myself, even if they aren't the exact same matrices."

She stared at him in shock. This person was claiming to be as powerful as _Brimir_?

And he was teaching _her?_

"Like I said, magic of Halkegenia is _severely_ limited," he continued, and she was just barely capable of paying attention to his words. Was he truly that powerful?

"I don't even _know_ how your civilisation managed to cast spells." He threw his hands upward in frustration. Louise couldn't help but quirk a smile at that. Powerful though he may be, he behaved nothing like Mother or any other Square Mages that she knew of.

"From what I can tell, some ancient wizard or sorcerer probably found a specific set of incantations for just the right magical foci that worked at _just_ the right diction, rhythm and frequency to draw upon and excite the Weave." He droned on, clearly frustrated. "Somehow, _that_ knowledge was treated as fact, passed down through the ages, and now you have your silly system of set spells based only on Five Elements, requiring the _same _incantations and some notion of elemental affinity to be used. It's a travesty! A _travesty!_"

Though she didn't fully understand what he'd said, her ears perked up at the portion that she did decipher. "You're saying that I can cast spells outside of my elemental affinity?" she asked, barely reining in her excitement. This was _huge_. If she could do that, then –

"Easily," he said lazily, as though he didn't care at all about how that completely disregarded all of magical theory taught in Tristain. "I'd wager you could learn _Mold Earth, Fire Bolt, Frostbite _and _Gust_ within a few weeks of mastering _Mage Hand_, if not sooner. The first spell is the hardest."

_By Brimir's name – _

"You're serious?" she jumped out of her chair, looking at him intensely for any sign of deception. It wouldn't be the first time that someone mocked her for failing to cast any spell.

"Of course," he continued saying. "Those are cantrips, much like _Mage Hand_. Which brings me back to my earlier point."

He waved his hand, and some of the patterns began moving in front of her, rotating as he spoke. "Every spell has a _matrix_. Technically speaking, you don't need a matrix to cast a spell, but it is what we use to understand _how_ a spell works and communicate with other arcane spellcasters regarding our craft. It is an abstract understanding; an approximation of how we _should_ interact with the Weave to bring about a desired effect."

She watched, mesmerised, as the patterns ranged from what appeared to be just a simple circle, to multi-convalescing geometrical shapes converging and diverging from one another in a manner that hurt her brain to try and make sense of. She saw some common motifs in them – a shield-like structure within a circle, a set of interlocking stars, a series of overlapping triangles that collapsed toward the centre, and many more.

"Each School of Magic has an underlying central sigil, which can be further modified to the desired function of the spell." One by one, she saw these motifs in front of her. "The complexity of a spell increases with each Spell Level, adding a single spell-circle layer with each level, but the difficulty of casting progresses _exponentially_ with each layer of added dimension to the matrix."

She wasn't sure if she fully understood that, but it _sounded_ like Tristainian magic. A _Dot_ spell was far simpler than a _Line_ spell, and the difference from a _Line _to a _Triangle_ spell was larger still.

"_Mage Hand_, like other cantrips, doesn't truly have a matrix, although some amateurs may design their own ones to help with their understanding. Because of their simplicity in simply willing the threads of magic to move and be shaped, all that is required to cast a cantrip is instinct in conveying the desired intent into actual practical handling of the Weave. With routine practice, it barely takes a mental toll."

…so, basically, she was struggling with the most basic of spells.

"Any questions?" The sigils disappeared, and now Louise could see Damian peering toward her.

She thought about what she'd been told, both by her familiar and Damian. There was something that didn't quite fit.

"Dalgan – my Familiar – said that Wizards learn through study and preparation, while Sorcerers instinctively know how to cast spells," she said slowly. For some reason, Damian looked deeply amused at that statement. She remembered just how her familiar had reacted to his name. Was he so far below Damian's station, and his information so inaccurate that he found it silly? "Am I a Wizard or a Sorcerer?"

"Good question. Hard to say, really." Again, he shrugged. "Most Sorcerers cast their first spells entirely by accident, so I'm leaning toward you taking on a more Wizard-like approach to magic, although I've never personally never heard of a Wizard with such a high sensitivity to the Weave. Which, as you recall, is the reason why you are such a fascinating student."

It did make sense. She always excelled at magical theory, even if she couldn't cast a single spell. Somehow, despite not knowing what Damian's brother had drawn in the dream to help with his casting of _Mage Hand_, she felt some kind of understanding there that was just barely eluding her.

"But I believe that you have rested enough." Damian stood up. He scrunched his face in concentration, and the lines in her vision returned once more. He extended a hand toward her, which she gladly accepted. "Calm your mind, and begin."

_A wizard's mind is calm_. She remembered that mantra from the dream. _A wizard's mind is calm. A wizard's mind is –_

"_Nix… Polem… Daktur…"_ she spoke the words, mimicking what she'd remembered from the dream. Once more, the threads began to swirl. Just one more _push_, and they would be 'hot' and 'firm' enough to shape.

"_Fahdiin…"_ This time, it was at just the right 'resonance', as Damian had put it. Now was the hard part.

_Speak. _"_Rokarr…"_

_Shape._ She moved with both body and mind. The fibres twisted.

_Speak._ "_Faraad…"_ _Maintain the resonance._

_Shape. Turn. Speak. _On and on it went. It was slow work, nowhere close to the instantaneous formation he'd seen Damian do, but _it was working._

It was a struggle to keep all of that in her mind at the same time. She needed to maintain the resonance, hold the shape together, while still folding and moving the threads in a way to form the final construct she desired. She ignored the throbbing in her mind, the pulsating headache starting to form, holding onto her spell for dear life.

Halfway there. Nothing else mattered, as she zeroed in only on the spell in her mind.

_Shape. Speak. Turn. _All three at once. _Calm._

Just a few more… "_Limaant… Finast… Yaanum…_"

The _Mage Hand_ was already there. Just one more push.

"_Rambuk._"

With that, a final forceful _flick_ of her wrist, the threads were tied together, stabilised from the shape she'd granted.

It lay in the air in front of her, its semi-translucent form shimmering a bright blue.

_Mage Hand._

She had done it.

She had cast a spell.

"Congratulations."

She turned to toward Damian. He had an oddly proud smile on his face, and there was no mistaking that gleam in his eyes. With a wave of his hands, the visualisation of the threads disappeared, but still the hand remained. Tentatively, she bid the _Mage Hand _to move, as though afraid that doing so would ruin the spell.

She watched in wonder as it moved and acted as _she_ willed it. It was _hers._

She remembered how ecstatic Damian's brother had been in that dream. _'I'm a Wizard',_ he had proclaimed. She could understand why, now.

She wasn't a Zero.

"I'm a Mage."

Damian created his own _Mage Hand_, and she knew what to do. She sent it moving forward, the two meeting in the middle, just as it had been in that dream.

She laughed happily, uncaring of the de la Vallière doctrine of the _Rule of Steel. _This was her accomplishment.

Damian, too, was smiling, although it was much more restrained. He looked at her proudly, but it was mixed with amusement, the same way one might to a particularly endearing pet or familiar. She ignored the indignation she might have felt at that. He had helped her achieve something impossible.

Strangely, and there was a chance that she could have imagined it, but for an instant there seemed to be an odd sense of _pain_ and remembrancein the way he'd smiled.

"Your next step will be to cast the spell without the gift of _True Seeing_," Damian said. That hardly even put a downer on her mood. If she did it once, she could do it again. "Then you need to shorten the casting time to a matter of seconds. It is hard work, but I look forward to your progress."

She nodded with determination. She would do this. She looked at Damian, and felt such an immense sense of déjà vu that she couldn't help but mimic what had happened in the dream that Damian had given her.

"_Frostwhisper_ and _Cinderblaze_, right?"

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

Instantly, his expression changed. Pride turned into a cold, calculating look, and the smile shifted into an utterly unreadable expression. It happened with such suddenness that Louise lost control of her own spell, the _Mage Hand_ dissipating into nothingness.

"_How do you know that name_?" he questioned harshly, his voice nothing at all like how it had been moments prior. It was cold, practically grating at her ears, and she felt a chill run down her spine.

_Frostwhisper._ She could see why he had that name now.

"Y- y- you showed me that dream!" she stammered, unable to speak properly in the whirl of events that caught her by surprise. "Y- you told your brother that you two would become _C-Cinderblaze and Frostwhisper, _so I…"

This wasn't the same caring mentor that showed her the truth of magic where no one else had. This was _Damian Frostwhisper._ Her familiar had called him by a myriad of titles, each of them sounding grand and reverent.

This was someone, who by his own admission, matched _Brimir _in power.

Abruptly, that presence vanished. He still looked cold, and his face was unreadable, but there was uncertainty in his eyes.

"Dream?" he questioned; a single word.

"Y- yes!" she hurriedly replied. "After our first meeting, you showed me that dream where I was your brother, and we were casting _Mage Hand!_"

"A dream…?" he repeated, but the question was not addressed to her. For once, she saw confusion and concern in his eyes. "But why? There shouldn't be…"

He trailed off, thinking deeply. After several moments, she finally dared to interrupt.

"Damian?" she asked as gently as she could. He turned toward her, as though forgetting she had been there the entire time. "Is everything alright?"

If her _mentor_ was worried about something, she needed to do what she could to help. A de la Vallière always made sure to repay those who helped them. Then there was still the matter of him having helped her cast her first spell, proof that she wasn't a _Zero_.

"It's fine," he said, his tone unreadable. "You did a good job. Continue practising, and I'll see you again soon."

"You're leaving?" she blurted out. It hadn't been that long that she'd practised, and she desperately wanted to master this spell.

"Keep working at it," he deflected. "Bye."

He snapped his fingers, and before Louise could object, she felt the world dissolve away, and then she knew the nothingness of sleep.

-o-o-o-

He awoke on that bundle of hay, and was deeply troubled. On the nearby bed, Louise was sound asleep.

He knew the event that Louise had been referring to. The first time he'd successfully cast a spell and known that he was a Wizard wasn't something he would forget anytime soon. It had been the first time that he and Damian had ever thought about becoming adventurers.

_Cinderblaze. _How he loathed his old Mage Name.

It didn't make sense. Why would Louise have dreamed of an old memory of his?

There were spells that allowed memory transference, ranging from the mundane _Encode Thoughts _to the mid-level _Modify Memory_ and variations of _Share Memory, _but nothing he'd done so far should have allowed her to view that particular memory of his. There was a chance that his engineered spell could have had unforeseen results, but the way he'd devised it shouldn't have allowed for such a possibility.

_A wizard's mind is calm_. He needed to break it down to the basics.

It could have been the result of a spell gone awry, or something else with a more malicious underlying intent. If so, it couldn't have been on his part, since he knew the exact framework of the modified _Dream_ he'd used.

It could also be the act of some deity or another, who were known to transmit images and memories to those they chose. Still, he just couldn't see that as anything more than a remote possibility. While he may have caught the attention of a fair few deities and demigods, she shouldn't have caught their eye. Mystryl's sake, he hadn't even so much as heard of this world before.

What else could it be, then? There shouldn't be anything linking the pair of them.

…well, that was not completely true. He _was_ her 'familiar' in the most technical of senses, and there were runes marked on his hand following her spell. Could this phenomenon be a by-product of that?

If so, what could it mean? From what Louise had told him while he masqueraded as Damian, it seemed to be simple memory viewing, nothing more. If so, there wasn't anything particularly malicious.

But was there more? Should he attempt to dispel the rune, without understanding exactly what it meant? It was risky, since runic arrays were notorious for their triggering of fail-safes, and that was _before_ considering that Louise was the equivalent of a Wild Mage. Dispelling it, even if _Dispel Magic_ worked, could have disastrous effects.

He would need to monitor it, he decided. He would need Louise to tell him (as Damian, of course) if she noticed anything beyond just viewing of his memories. He would need a record of dates and events, and see if there was any pattern to it.

Though there was uncertainty, he felt that rush of excitement and curiosity once more.

If he could understand what was happening, distil its underlying principles and formulate a structured approach to replicating and improving on it, he might just be able to further their understanding of Mind magic, a field that was still poorly understood. The masters of the mind tended to be the Illithid of the Far Realm, who weren't keen on sharing the secrets they possessed. Everything had to be reverse-engineered from what Wizards observed and remembered following battles with the race of psionic aberrations.

There wasn't much he could act on just yet. Still, though, he would need to be ready for when the time came that he had more information available. He just didn't have the _time _to sort through everything alone, while maintaining facades as Dalgan Dimwit the Peasant. That would require certain arrangements on his part.

Making sure that Louise was still fast asleep, he exited the room. Then, he found a quiet location out of sight of any would-be observers, and _Teleported_ back to his Tower.

"You have returned once more, Master," Golem droned immediately, before the rush of air in the wake of the spell had even fully dispersed. "Is your vacation over?"

"No, no," he said distractedly. "Something's come up – and can you believe it? _Even _I don't fully understand it! It's fascinating! But –"

He didn't have that much time to explain just what he planned to do, since Louise did make mention to 'Damian' that she planned to bring her familiar to the town to purchase certain items. As things currently were, he would already be quite short on time, if she planned to leave before midday. He cut to the chase.

"I need some materials. Get me enough snow to make a life-size copy of myself, and a generous amount of powdered ruby, if you would be so kind."

"You are planning to construct a simulacrum?" Golem intoned, already moving to one of the cabinets housing their gem collection. If there was one _good_ thing about being a revered figure in Faerûn, it was being showered with gifts by bootlickers.

"Indeed," he affirmed. "I simply don't have enough time to pursue every lead by myself."

Golem placed a fairly large ruby crystal on the table, raw and unrefined, and began to crush it into a fine powder. Dalgan inspected it carefully, making a quick mental calculation of its arcane potency. It _should_ be enough to fuel his spell.

When that was done, Golem left the room, moving to wherever it was they kept enough snow for such purposes. He wasn't one to run logistics on all his reagents, when he had a perfectly capable arcane construct who could do so.

Right then. Snow, powdered ruby, some of his own hair… what else was missing?

His stomach growled.

Ah, right. He nearly forgot.

"Oh! And a cupcake as well!"

-o-o-o-

He sighed as he walked back from the small patch of territory near the stables that had been claimed as their own, where they'd set up a _Private Sanctum _and _Magnificient Mansion, _complete with _Alarm_ wards. He was _not_ looking forward to meeting a no doubt irate Louise de la Vallière, since it was already an hour past mid-day.

In his defense, though, she'd never directly told _Dalgan_ about her plans for the day. It didn't count as being late if he technically didn't have an appointment, right?

Ah, who was he kidding? Knowing his little apprentice-master, she'd find some way to blame him. There was still a slim chance that she'd be reasonable, though, since she had been becoming more unpredictable ever since their lessons started and she finally began to truly understand _magic_ rather than the farce that was perpetuated in Tristain.

When he next met Dalgan Prime, he would make his irritation known. Simulacrum lives mattered, damn it!

Following the twelve-hour long casting of the spell that resulted in his abrupt creation, Prime had simply grabbed a few cookies, waved goodbye to Golem, tossed a peasant's garb over to him, and _Teleported _the pair of them back to the Academy while munching on said treats.

"_Good luck," _was all he'd said, before he conjured and entered the _Magnificent Mansion _in the same spot it had been for the past three days. He was probably already fast asleep, having been awake through the entire day and then the lengthy casting process.

As a simulacrum, he knew the task he had to perform. He knew that he consisted of ice and snow imbued with the _essence_ of Dalgan Wintersoul, physical and metaphysical aspects further cemented through the foundation of powdered ruby that layered the spell, and then bolstered by a healthy amount of immaterial illusory substance from the Plane of the _Shadowfell_. He was a _construct_, a being of magic disguised as flesh and bone, acting in accordance with what his creator wished. For all intents and purposes, he was the magical extension of what it meant to be Dalgan Wintersoul.

It also meant that he had the same personality traits, knowledge, dreams and abilities as Dalgan Prime. Beyond the magical enhancements and equipment added on to Prime's person, such as the gift of permanent _True Seeing_, every spell of his repertoire was otherwise available to him.

The only difference was that since he was forged of the Shadowfell, the amount of magic he could wield was limited to what was copied at the time of casting. Each successive spell would tax at what served as his mind without replenishment, and eventually he would be able to cast only the merest of _Cantrips_.

Intriguingly, Prime had commented that while the runes on their hands were physically identical, his own may as well have been unenchanted tattoos, seeing as how it appeared just as mundane as every other bit of him to his sight.

He, of course, knew that. Though he may not be able to visualise the Weave at present, he _was_ just as sensitive to magic as Prime himself, thank you very much. They would have loved to discuss it further between themselves, but alas Prime was far too tired and he had an appointment he shouldn't even know he had to make.

Hmm… he really needed to find a way to refer to himself. Perhaps 'Better Dalgan'? It wasn't like Prime was around to enforce his thoughts, anyway.

It was settled. _Better Dalgan_ walked back toward the Mages' Quarters, thinking of a way to get his own payback against Prime for what would inevitably be an earful by Louise.

"There you are!" _Ah, speak of the Rakshasa, and he shall appear._ His furious little master was storming toward him, already dressed in her usual Academy uniform at the base of the tower. "Where have you _been_?"

Well, time to see if his excuse would work out.

"Lady Louise," he greeted respectfully, wiping off beads of sweat from across his face that had been created with _Prestidigitation_ prior to his arrival. "Apologies for my late return. I awoke early this morning for a walk, and found a majestic meadow that so reminded me of home that I lost track of time."

"You could have let me known," she said, irritated. "I've been looking for you for hours!"

"Again, I apologise. I didn't wish to rouse you from what looked like the most pleasant of _dreams_."

He stressed the last word ever-so-slightly just to mess with her. It wasn't obvious enough for her to be suspicious of what he knew, but still drew attention to the word. From what he could tell over the last three days, she was trying to keep the truth of her secret tutoring well under wraps. Hopefully it would distract her sufficiently to temporarily forget about his tardiness, and if it didn't, well…

…he wouldn't have to deal with any of the fallout that came from this. Served Prime right for laying his errands off on him!

"D- Dreams?" she said immediately, backing into denial. "No dreams for me! None! Come on, familiar, we're going to the village! We're buying _you_ proper bedding and equipment!"

Ah, how he longed to cast a _Detect Thoughts_ to see just what was ticking in that mind of hers_._ Alas, he had to ration his spells carefully, since composed of the Weave as he was, he had a finite amount of magic at his disposal and couldn't simply throw them around negligently as he wished.

Though it would be most amusing, he sorely hoped that the girl hadn't developed a sort of hero-worship for Prime's (and now his, he supposed) alter ego as Damian Frostwhisper. That would only be all sorts of confusing.

Poor girl, to have struggled for so long without a guide. As a simulacrum, he could understand her plight. Were someone able to truly give him _life_, and a true ability to perceive and interact with the Weave the way he knew Prime could (since he _was_ Prime, in a way), he would fall on his hands and knees and worship them as a Deity.

Come to think of it, could he _Wish_ himself to life?

Could he even _have _wishes?

"What are you standing around for? Hurry up!" Louise shouted from up ahead. "We've got a busy day ahead!"

…probably not the best time to ponder on the finer aspects of construct existentialism. He hurried on after his master (Louise, not Prime – being a simulacrum certainly was confusing), coincidentally walking back toward the stables he'd just arrived from. As they passed by the patch of land hidden under the boundaries of _Private Sanctum, _he swore he could hear Prime laughing at his ear with a _Message_ cantrip.

…was it sadism or masochism, if Prime was getting a sense of schadenfreude from his simulacrum's suffering?

Ah, the poor lives of simulacra (not simula_crums_, he would point out). Truly, no one appreciated their sacrifices.

-o-o-o-

He hadn't gone riding on a _true _horseback in ages.

Ever since he'd chanced upon the _Phantom Steed _spell on the belongings of that bandit wizard that had been a thorn in the side of the villagers of Greenwood, he'd never had to ride on a true, corporeal, living-and-breathing horse. When he'd learned _Polymorph_, he'd become his own beast of burden; and then when he'd mastered _Teleportation Circle_ and later _Teleport, _long-distance travelling on foot had become optional.

It was strangely refreshing to feel the wind across his untransformed face. It was odd for him to ride atop the thick muscles on the back of his mount rather than the illusory metaphysical substance of the Shadowfell. Incidentally, that very same substance was what constituted him.

Though he was moving at a leisurely pace alongside Louise, the pair of horses trotting at a comfortable pace along the road leading to the nearby village, his mind thought back to the times spent with Trisha and Damian at the start of their adventures. He and Damian had always loved racing each other, much to their dear Fighter's annoyance. That recollection almost brought a tear to his eye.

Yes, he _technically _wasn't Dalgan Prime, and so hadn't truly experienced those days, but he had feelings too. He was a _simulacrum_, not a golem.

"Dalgan," Louise addressed him abruptly, breaking the silence that had taken hold. He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Yes, Lady Louise?"

"There is a familiar exhibition coming up next week," she said. "You will be performing."

Hmm. That was news to him. Hopefully, this wouldn't be yet another task that Prime relegated to him.

"Performing?" he questioned.

"All second-year students demonstrate the abilities of their newly-summoned familiars. It is a tradition at the Academy that has existed since its founding," she explained. She'd slowed her horse down slightly to accommodate for conversation, and on close inspection there was just ever the slightest hint of worry on her face.

No surprises as to why. She'd just accomplished her first success in magic, and wasn't looking forward to embarrassing herself in front of note only her peers, but her superiors in nobility.

"Hmm. I suppose I can tell a good joke," he proposed. "Did you hear the one about the Drow and the Duergar?"

"The _what?"_

"Elves and dwarves of the Underdark? Hate pretty much all other races?" he asked with mock incredulity, then sighed. "Never mind, I suppose it's a little lost in translation. At least it'll be unique! Which other of your peers could honestly say –"

"Stop fooling around!" she chastised, although she was fighting to maintain her scowl. Ah, it was almost cute how she still tried to preserve that stiff upper lip of nobility. "Be serious! This exhibition means a lot to mages!"

"Truly?" he asked, genuinely curious. Sure, it sounded like _tradition_, but she seemed to be attributing a lot of weight to what seemed like a rather mundane affair.

"Of course! The Royal Family will be in attendance! This can determine our future positions in the royal court!" she informed him, adopting a regal tone as though reciting from memory. "Those with powerful familiars can be scouted out by ministers and governors to be groomed into power."

"Hmm," he hummed, acknowledging her point. Still, though… "What would you have me do, Lady Louise?"

"You can show off your swordsmanship," she suggested. "You are a former knight, and the royal family will know to appreciate your talents. Just repeat what you did with Guiche!"

At that point, she trailed off uneasily. Guiche still hadn't quite returned to his normal self since that day. Most thought it had to do with how easily he'd been vanquished, when the truth of the matter was the complete opposite. Dalgan Prime still didn't quite know how to approach the issue, short of casting _Modify Memory_ to wipe the event from the boy's mind and the lesson that came with it.

Well, that was a problem for the Prime to think about. This exhibition, on the other hand, was challenging in its own right.

Show off his magic, he could do; but _swordplay? _He couldn't even just replicate a casting of _Steel Wind Strike_, since it would be painfully obvious to anyone watching that he wasn't truly a knight once he floundered around with the blade after the (albeit impressive) effects of the spell left him.

To maintain his cover, he would need to wield a sword with expertise befitting a knight. Learning that within a week would require either magic or a miracle –

Oh, right. He could have slapped himself.

Magic was the obvious solution. How could he have failed to remember that, as a Wizard of his standing?

_Wish _didn't count, since he was loathe to tempt the fickle whims of fate for such a mundane purpose during a vacation. Fortunately, there was a spell that would help him here.

_Tenser's Transformation_, a Sixth Level Transmutation spell, made its caster practically a _master _in all manner of combat. The only reason why he hadn't thought of it sooner was because he'd never seen reason to use it before.

In shaping the Weave to bolster not just the Wizard's body, but also directly drawing upon its power to sift through the sea of knowledge that the Weave permeated in order to gain an unnatural understanding of martial technique, the spell mandated a certain sacrifice in further usage of the Weave while it was active. To summarise pages upon pages of magical theory, it made the caster close to being a literal _Fighter, _at the cost of being unable to cast _any _spells during its duration.

He'd never seen any point in casting the spell, which was saying something, since he was a Wizard that used _Steel Wind Strike _for amusement. Many more Wizards felt that the spell wasn't even worth the inks and parchment used for the inscription of its matrix in their spellbooks.

"I suppose I _could_ give a display of swordsmanship," he conceded. Hopefully, Prime would take charge of this venture, and he wouldn't need to waste the magic suffusing his simulacrum body on such a costly spell.

Knowing Prime as well as he knew himself, though, that lazy bastard would probably just delegate that task to him.

"Really?" Louise followed up immediately, strangely surprised and enthusiastic. "You'll take part?"

"I suppose so?" Did she expect him not to? "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"No, no!" She denied. "It's just… you haven't really shown any interest before, and with what you told me about your _past_, I wasn't sure…"

Prime's story had definitely made an impression on her, then. That was almost kind of sweet. Who would have thought that his unknowing apprentice could think of the welfare of her familiar?

"It will be fine, Lady Louise," he reassured. Well, he thought it would be, at least. If the act went any longer than ten minutes, his falsified skill would be immediately revealed. "It will be my honour to act in your service."

…he was really starting to hope that Dalgan Prime would take charge here.

"Thank you," she said softly, almost too quiet to be heard.

With that, they continued trotting along.

…except that it was getting awkward, lapsing back into silence after that period of conversation. Traveling with Damian and Trisha had always been a lively affair. Even later on, when he'd had more exotic means of travel at his disposal, Rukaza and Polinos had never kept their mouths shut. Though he enjoyed his solitude, he'd always associated traveling with _conversation._

"Do you have family, Lady Louise?" he blurted out, thinking of the first topic that came to mind. His companions were the closest to family Dalgan was going to get.

Well, aside from Golem, but he didn't really count.

And _yes, _Better Dalgan was just a simulacrum, but he had feelings too, damn it!

"Huh?"

"Riding is boring. I'm trying to break the ice here," he groaned. "Help me out a little."

"My father is Duke de la Vallière," she said slowly after a moment of silence. "My mother, Duchess de la Vallière, is renowned as a Square mage."

"Impressive," he said obligingly. Really, though, that meant nothing to him. "Any siblings?"

"Two sisters."

"Older, or younger?"

"Older," she said with less guardedness, warming up to him slightly. Evidently, she was far more comfortable talking about them than her parents.

Not too uncommon with nobility, unfortunately.

"Married?" Nobles did often tend to have some of the most complex pedigrees he knew of.

"Eleonore's engaged to a Count –" she paused mid-sentence, turning to look at him incredulously. "Are you trying to hit on my sisters?"

_That _promptly sent him into a coughing fit. When he'd finally recovered, Louise seemed as though she didn't know whether to be insulted on their behalf or amused at his expense.

At least she was warming up to him, if she was capable of making that joke.

…he hoped it was a joke, at least. He had enough of that nonsense back in Faerûn.

"I assure you, Lady Louise, my intentions are completely pure," he droned. "Anyway, the second?"

"Cattleya is the younger of the two," she said, facing back toward the road ahead. "She's the best. She's one of the most powerful mages of her age; kind, smart and beautiful to boot." _Well, seems like she has a high impression of her. _She frowned slightly."With her sickness, though, she is unable to travel far, lest her body fails her."

"Sickness?" he probed.

"Untreatable," she said, her voice steely. It didn't escape his notice how she had stiffened atop her horse. "She was born with the affliction. Mother and Father have summoned many powerful Water Mages, but none were able to help her."

He frowned. He _did _read that Water Mages we're capable of healing magic, but he had no way of knowing just how their spells worked.

"Is that magical, or mundane in nature?" he followed up naturally, as one would approach any other academic curiosity. "Disease, sickness, or poison? Curse or magical affliction?"

Abruptly, her horse slammed into a halt as she took the reins, turning to face him sharply.

"There's a difference?"

_Does this world not make a distinction between such fundamental categories?_

"Well, yes," he intoned slowly. "You would need different spells, antidotes or elixirs for each of them."

"You know how to cure Cattleya?!" she almost jumped from her horse in excitement. "Please! Help her!"

"I'm no Wizard," he lied. He wasn't about to go into detail about the whole shtick of divine casters such as Clerics and Druids either, since Prime had decided not to bother dealing with that side of her magical education. "I know how to brew some simple potions, but I'm afraid I wouldn't know how to help her."

He tried to let her down gently, but her immediately crestfallen expression stung slightly. Wordlessly, she turned back to face the front, stirring her horse into motion once more.

Perhaps he could see if he could go about assisting Louise with curing this sister of hers of her malady, once he chose to end his vacation. She had been oddly entertaining thus far, despite how much she kept unknowingly reminding him of his past days.

He would need to speak to Prime about it, of course. He was the one calling the shots here.

"I'm sorry, Lady Louise," he said gently.

"'s not your fault," she mumbled almost incoherently. "I just thought…"

Now he felt bad. He would make sure Prime knew exactly just how pitiful she seemed. If anyone could shatter that ice-cold heart of his, it was his simulacrum, right?

"Never mind. We're here," Louise informed him abruptly.

True enough, the village was just beginning to come into view. As they neared, more and more houses began to line the roads, people pointing and gesturing at the pair as they passed, both excited and derisive. It seemed that even in Tristain, commonfolk were divided in their opinions toward nobles.

"Come," Louise said, guiding him toward the stables. Dismounting from their horses and handing the reins over to the stablehand, they entered the village proper.

-o-o-o

Just slightly more than an hour later, they'd finally managed to purchase what Louise had deemed _suitable _bedding for her familiar.

They could have spent a mere fraction of the time they'd wasted on that, but Louise has made it plenty clear that she would not tolerate anything less than the finest of mattresses for one in direct service of a member of the de la Vallière name.

He would have been touched by the gesture, but really there hadn't been a need for one stuffed with the down of some obscure bird he hardly cared to know the name of. In his early adventuring days, sleeping on creaky wooden floors was a luxury so long as it meant having a roof over his head, rather than braving the elements.

The shopkeeper had promised the delivery of the well-cushioned bedding within the week, which Louise had made sure to capture in writing. He had no idea what an _écu _was, but apparently she had paid fifty of that particular denomination of currency for that.

It was sad that her act of generosity would likely go wasted, since Prime had been electing to leave her room to proceed to the _Mansion _once she fell asleepand return early the next day each night thus far. Unfortunately, her spree of wasted good intentions was set to continue, since they were now entering yet another shop on the opposite side of town to purchase a weapon for himself that he hardly knew how to wield.

Ehh, at least it could make a good souvenir for Prime once they returned to Mel'Rolem. Dalgan always did enjoy collecting little trinkets from where his travels took him. Of course, it wasn't just for the sake of collecting memorabilia, since those objects would make most _excellent _anchors for _Teleport_ spells if ever he wished to return to some exotic location or another.

The door creaked slightly on its frame as they entered. For a moment, the shopkeeper looked surprised, his eyes trailing over their forms briefly, before breaking out into a toothy smile, hurriedly wiping dust off the counter as he beckoned them over.

"Welcome, welcome!" he ushered them quickly, stepping toward them. "How may I be of service?"

"I would like to browse the finest swords in your collection," Louise said, staring the man down, every bit the noble he'd met during his arrival. "I hope you have something that would suit our standards?"

"You wound me, lady noble. I boast only the finest of weapons," he said placatingly, stepping back to allow them to pass, a look of avarice in his eyes. He didn't spare a moment to remain silent, certainly not in the face of a wealthy noble such as Louise. "But if you may forgive my rudeness in asking – why would a noble such as yourself require a blade? Perhaps I may interest you in our finest wands or staves?"

_More than likely, they would be far pricier too_. This merchant certainly knew how to discern the relative wealth of his clientele well.

"You are mistaken," she said, her voice calm and disinterested with a healthy amount of condescension, her posture completely straight. It was a far cry from the Louise he'd seen leak out on the rare occasions she'd let her vulnerabilities show. "I mean to purchase a sword for my familiar. He is a former _knight, _you see."

She emphasised the word heavily, as though expecting the man to know his station and recommend a suitable weapon accordingly. Better Dalgan held back a sigh, as the man's focus shifted toward himself, his eyes once more sweeping over his body. If he found anything to suggest a loss of business, the shopkeeer did well to hide his disappointment.

"Ah! Splendid!" He gestured off to one side, pointing toward cabinets and drawers of weapons. "We stock a range of swords of all designs, going from simple shortswords – of course, I wouldn't _dare _to suggest for someone in the little lady noble's service to wield such a shoddy weapon – to one-of-a-kind blades made by master craftsmen."

"Your finest, if you please," Louise said imperiously. "I insist on nothing but the best for my familiar."

"As it should be for one of your station, lady noble!" he hurriedly agreed, a shimmer of greed in his eyes, before heading to what looked to be a stock room, loudly rummaging through one of the drawers. Louise seemed to be oblivious to it all, no doubt well-indoctrinated on the way nobles should communicate with commoners, but without any practical experience in the art.

It was a good thing that he was around to politely steer her away from financial ruin.

He coughed politely. "Lady Louise, I thank you for your generosity, but I must insist against such extravagance. A common weapon would suffice –"

"Nonsense," she scoffed, glaring at him. "A knight, and certainly not one in the service of my family, cannot be seen wielding a commoner's blade."

Well, he tried.

"Right you are, lady noble!" Somehow, the shopkeeper was remaining engaged, while still off somewhere in the back room. He was returning now, an ornately designed blade held in his arms. Gem-studded and shining a radiant silver with gold trimmings along the handle and hilt, it indeed looked to be an exquisitely-decorated weapon.

And that was as far as things went. Beyond _decoration_, the blade itself seemed practically worthless in battle. He may not have been an expert in combat, but after years spent with Polinos haggling over the most minor of minutiae, he'd come to develop a keen eye for such things himself. The fact that Rukaza had repeatedly claimed that any pretty-looking blade was unfit for battle certainly solidified his thoughts toward this decorative piece. Even Jotum, blessed Paladin of Sarenrae, had reluctantly agreed that it was unlikely that a sword meant to catch one's eyes at hilt and guard without drawing attention to the edge of the blade itself was of any worth in battle.

Well, if Louise was going to purchase it, Prime could keep it as a mantlepiece or something, perhaps. It wasn't _his_ money he would be wasting.

"This blade here is made by the collaborative efforts from the most gifted of Germanian blacksmiths, Albionian alchemists and Tristainian mages," the shopkeeper said grandly, pointing at the blade with a flourish. "The edge itself is blessed by holy men of Romalia. The finest of gems specially procured from the best of jewelcrafters have been placed within the hilt. Truly, this blade is entirely unique, a weapon befitting even _royalty."_

He had a way with words, but truthfully Better Dalgan had stopped listening as soon as he'd said that alchemists and mages played a role in its enchantment. Though he lacked Prime's _True Seeing_, he _was_ still a copy of a gifted Wizard, and to not feel the barest amount of arcana from the sword was telling in and of itself. The blade was functionally dead to the Weave, not brimming with sheer potency and vibrating as though eager for battle like he'd come to associate with the many enchanted weapons in his and his companions' arsenals.

Louise, surprisingly, ran her hands over the blade, inspecting it with utmost concentration with furrowed brows. The shopkeeper looked at her curiously, while Dalgan simply felt sorry for her. It was a good idea, and frankly speaking he was curious to see if she was attuned enough to the presence of the Weave to detect magical presences passively without fully identifying their purpose, but it was a shame that her first attempt would be on the dullest of unenchanted weapons.

Eventually, she gave up, grimacing and setting the blade back on the table. "How much?" she asked.

There was yet another flash of victorious satisfaction across the man's face, but he schooled his expression nearly instantaneously. "For something of this quality, my lady, it would be a sin to part with it for below two thousand écus."

To her credit, Louise didn't splutter or flinch at the price, although he knew full well that she had no way of affording the blade. Whoever had taught her to show no weakness had done an excellent job, although said person had also completely neglected to mention that there were times where displays of vulnerability were welcome.

"Do you have any other swords?" she asked instead, glancing over the many shelves.

"Ah, but of course!" He took out a few more swords of various designs, that he'd conveniently kept on his person. No doubt he knew that Louise couldn't afford the weapon he'd initially recommended. "These blades here are all of our finest, although they can't compare with that masterwork piece, of course!"

He laughed theatrically, pointing them out. "This here's a longsword with a fine cutting edge – two hundred écus; a rapier made by a former fencer, two hundred fifty; a scimitar…"

Dalgan ignored him, leaving Louise and him to their one-sided conversation while he inspected the shelves himself. Some of them were _decent_ blades, ones worth perhaps several gold pieces, but none that he'd shown had really struck as outstanding.

He peered through the shelves, idly wondering whether he should start up a venture linking novice enchanters of Faerûn with blacksmiths of this world, since everything on display seemed to be pitifully dead to magic. He could earn a decent amount of coin – not that he needed any, of course, since Prime was about as miserly as it got outside of reagents and personal equipment (he _still _refused to purchase furniture for the lounge room of his own Tower, claiming that he had no guests to entertain anyway). As far as gold went, with Golem keeping track of his financial decisions, he could probably match the treasury of some entire minor kingdoms for their worth.

He placed yet another sword down, habitually moving to pick up the next one on the same rack when –

_Holy. Shit._

A sentient blade!

Now _that_ was something worth getting excited about. Unlike regular enchanted equipment that shone brilliantly with the thrum of magic, there was an ebb and flow to the enchantments of sentient blades, reflecting the sense of will gifted unto them.

Different types of sentience had their own _flavours_, as Dalgan had come to call them. Soul-based magics similar to the way that liches achieved immortality felt tantalising and yet chilly, not unlike the actual lich's phylactery that housed his soul. Others were borne of an imprint of the caster's will, almost like how a _Simulacrum _such as himself was a magical extension of what it meant to _be_ Dalgan. Some were simply constructed with a purpose, with magic itself left to pursue its own means of achieving said purpose. Rarer and more exotic forms of sentience existed, even going so far as Raw Magic organizing and forming a new collective consciousness of its own.

Beyond identifying that it was clearly sentient, the blade before him was enchanted in a manner he couldn't recognise from his passive senses alone, and he knew without a doubt that Prime would want to inspect it for himself. With _True Seeing_, he would have a better idea of what it could do, anyway.

Still, the blade was being oddly quiet though. Perhaps it was just shy?

…it could also be incredibly stupid, much like the _Lilarcor_ they had found in the sewers of Athkatla. At least it knew enough to be quiet, since Lilarcor had never shut up. Prime still kept it in his bag of holding, since it was the perfect method of annoying anyone unfortunate enough to have to deal with that dimwit sword.

Come to think of it, he wondered how people would react if he kept up his guise as Dalgan Dimwit while wielding _Lilarcor_. Now _that _would be interesting. An experiment to try out later, once he'd settled business here.

"I'll take this one," he told Louise, breaking up what appeared to be he shopkeeper attempting to sell her not one, but _two _swords. They stopped talking suddenly, turning to see what had caught his eye.

He noted how the shopkeeper began eyeing him with interest at that proclamation, alongside not a small amount of confusion. Louise, meanwhile, was frowning.

"Are you sure you want _that, _Dalgan?" She raised a delicate eyebrow, turning her nose slightly, somehow conveying a sense of disgust with that simple action. "It doesn't seem very impressive."

Ah, a rookie mistake, judging something by their aesthetics alone. Some _artifacts_ looked no more impressive than the most common of equipment.

She made her distaste clear. Luckily for him, he knew how to convince her to purchase the weapon, after having spent the better part of the day riding alongside her and feeling for her reactions. In a way, she was so naively innocent despite her upbringing as a noble brat, it was kind of cute.

"It reminds me of my old sword, back where I come from," he said simply, lying through his teeth. "It was a gift from my brother, before he passed in the war, and…"

He trailed off deliberately, hiding a smile as her face visibly softened. A love for siblings and sympathy for his past consisting of both truth and lies sealed the deal. She politely pushed aside the other blades that the shopkeeper had somehow been convincing her to purchase, looking at him squarely in the eye.

"How much?"

"For that one?" He deliberated for a moment, clearly attempting to see just how far he could raise his profit margins. "For something like that, one hundred and fifty écus."

That was a real bargain, considering that truly sentient weapons could be worth upwards of tens of thousands of gold pieces to collectors, before even factoring in their respective enchantments. Some were prized even more heavily by warriors. He would have rushed to pay the man himself had he any of the local currency, but Louise was bolder still.

"One hundred." Her voice betrayed no emotion.

The shopkeeper continued to struggle for several more moments, before finally acquiescing. "Deal."

Damn. Louise had completely reversed what would have been herself being robbed blind by the man's tempting words.

One hundred écus poorer, they left the shop, the shopkeeper less happy than he could have been but still content all the same. Ah, if only he'd known the treasure he'd held.

With his newest purchase attached to his belt, he walked alongside Louise as they returned to the stables, his mind awhirl with happy thoughts. What secrets would this sword hold? Was it an evolving sentient weapon, or did its enchantments come pre-packaged?

Louise was looking at him oddly, but seemed to put it down to another one of his quirks or perhaps fond reminiscence of his past, because she didn't comment any further.

He couldn't _wait _to show Prime that sword. He was going to be so jealous he'd laid his eyes on it first.

Serves him right for bullying his simulacrum! They were people too!

-o-o-o-

While Louise and his simulacrum were off making that inefficient trek to the village (he couldn't stand that sort of travel anymore, after experiencing the sweet convenience of _Teleport)_, Dalgan hadn't simply wasted his time doing nothing.

_Fine_, he may have slept for a few hours, but he deserved that period of rest after twelve hours of chanting and gesturing at a pile of snow adorned with various other reagents! Everyone knew that wizards operated on sleep and a healthy amount of sugary treats!

He had, of course, delayed his nap just long enough to catch Louise and his simulacrum making their way toward the stables from inside the confines of his _Private Sanctum_. He couldn't resist casting a _Message _cantrip laughing at his poor copy's misery. His sacrifice would not be forgotten.

…Dalgan really needed a better way to refer to his simulacrum. _Lesser Dalgan_ would do well, he decided.

Several hours of refreshing and dearly-needed sleep later, he'd ventured out under the guise of an _Invisibility _spell, making his way to the Academy's library. During his first day in Tristain, he'd noted that an entire section of the library had been cordoned off, protected by a crude ward scheme to keep out potential students poking their snotty noses where they shouldn't. He'd opted to stay away at the time, since the information he needed back then was all freely available, but he suspected that the knowledge he now sought of a more esoteric nature wouldn't be quite so easy to find.

The barrier was decently well-crafted, if one considered that _Abjuration _was a foreign concept to this world, but there were so many flaws in its construction that Dalgan could have identified well over a dozen ways to bypass the spell. In the end, he'd chosen to simply _Dimension Door _through its bounded threshold, rather than completely take down the ward. No doubt that would have eventually alerted some member of staff, even though there hadn't been an accompanying _Alarm_ scheme tied in with the rest of the warding array.

For what was restricted content, most of the titles were fairly disappointing. Treatises on magic of the Five Elements were hardly going to be of use for him, since their system was constructed on so flimsy a basis it was a wonder it worked at all. Others were books of historical value, which while no doubt valuable weren't quite what he was looking for at this moment. Still, the historian within couldn't help but take a quick peek in those tomes.

It was after searching for several minutes, under a refreshed _Invisibility _spell, that he finally began to find a clue. It had been hidden within a scholarly recollection of Brimir's deeds. While most of the book had been spent lauding the feats of magic he had performed (not quite so impressive to Dalgan), there had been the smallest of sections devoted to his Familiars.

Yes, plural. That had caught Dalgan's interest.

_Gandálfr_, _Vindalfr_, _Mjöðvitnir_ and _Lífbrasir_, the Left and Right Hands, Mind and Heart of God respectively. Rather pretentious titles, and he had some severe doubts about the truth behind their legends.

Seriously, how was Mjödvitnir supposed to even be close to reality? The book spoke of the Mind of God's ability to, he would quote, '_operate any magical artifact and create any magical feat'_. The former he wouldn't contest, since he was likely more than able to do the same given sufficient time for study and preparation, but the latter sounded too far-fetched. Unless it was a _Wish _spell being casted daily that miraculously didn't leave its caster completely cut off from the Weave or his body broken from the sheer strain of the spell, he liked to think that there were limits to its effects.

The others weren't quite as interesting, although Lifbrasir seemed to be pretty dangerous. If some necromancer or lich chanced upon the unique set of circumstances allowing for the rune's effects to be replicated, he could be dealing with a problem of yet another soul-farm starting up to empower the wizard's potency, much like that one lich that had attempted the same with his horde of captive peasants back in his hideout in Icewind Dale.

Soul magic didn't even _work_ like that, but liches still continued to try anyway in their eternal thirst for power. If the _Heart of God_ did indeed hold even a shred of truth to it, such knowledge could be deadly in the wrong hands.

Unfortunately for him, it didn't solve any of his conundrums, since none of those runes were quite what was on his hand.

There _were_ some motifs that were shared between his runes and the rough sketches denoted in the book, but without a further reference bank to build a mental scheme of the local runic language, he couldn't certain if each rune carried meaning on its own or if function was an emergent property of the overall array. That warranted further research, in order to decipher just _why _Louise had peered into his memory, and what, if any, other secrets lay in wait.

It was why he had stolen (yes, he would freely admit that it was theft) that book, and several others, including records of every rune carved into every Familiar since the Academy's founding when Tristain had been set up _six thousand years_ ago, up to just shy of hundred years prior, which he assumed was still being used actively by the Academy's staff. The oldest copies had an extremely thick layer of dust settled on top of it, and he would admit to being surprised when the pages somehow managed to hold together as he unceremoniously dumped it into his bag of holding.

That criminal act done, he'd returned to his _Magnificent Mansion _to pore over those records. He now knew that the floating eyeball was apparently called a _Bugbear_, although it was nothing at all like the savage goblinoid creatures of the same name he was used to.

Why would they even call those heavily inbred Beholders '_bugbears_', anyway? The term had been coined to describe creatures that evokes feelings of fear or anxiety, but he just couldn't see how anyone could feel anything beyond amusement and pity for those miserable deformed eyeballs.

He had redesigned his _Mansion _now, and was sitting at a table in his study, quietly sipping at a glass of magically-conjured wine provided an _Unseen Servant_ as he sifted through the dusty pages. The interior design made no sense, since the reception hall led to both his personal study and the dining hall that Golem had _insisted _was necessary during the time he had returned to his tower. Function over form, was what he told himself.

He didn't know how many hundreds of familiar records he had gone through, but he certainly now knew enough of the runic system to understand that whatever it was that their ritual of familiar summoning entailed, it was heavily imprecise and almost seemed to be grounded on Wild Magic. There was hardly any order or pattern to the nature of the summoned familiar and runes engraved into them.

It was only the combination of a gust of rushing wind and a loud popping sound as the gateway to his _Mansion _rematerialised that stole his attention away from the books.

"Honey, I'm _hoooome_!" His own sing-song voice greeted.

This was going to take some getting used to.

"Please refrain from saying that," he sighed.

"But honey, don't you love me anymore?" his voice gasped, as the sound of footsteps coming from the entrance hall grew louder from just past the corner.

"I can't decide if it should be considered narcissism or not that we're even having this conversation," he said finally tearing his eyes away from his books as Lesser Dalgan stepped into view. "Aren't we supposed to be –"

He paused, staring at just what Lesser Dalgan had brought with him. Dalgan couldn't resist whistling in appreciation.

"Well, _hello _there." The words left his lips before he even realised he'd said them.

The sword was practically lighting up to his _True Seeing_, layers upon layers of enchantments intertwining to strengthen and bolster one another. Magic was pulsing and dancing over the surface, though to his mundane sight it looked entirely unassuming. He knew, without a doubt, that this sword was _alive._

"Are you planning on cheating on me with this baby?" his simulacrum gasped again in mock affront, clutching the sword closer to himself. "I saw this beauty first, you can't –"

"Come on, give it to me already!" he urged, rising up from his seat to take a closer look. Lesser Dalgan stuck a tongue out at Dalgan (he ignored how bizarre that sight was), before finally laying it down on the table, looking at it just as eagerly as himself.

Why was his simulacrum such a little troublemaker? First Golem, and now him too? Weren't they supposed to have the same personalities, being a magical replicate and all?

Honestly! If it were him as the simulacrum, he wouldn't –

Oh wait. He totally _would _mess with himself, just for the fun of it. Damned simulacra.

Anyway! The overall framework dancing over the sword was one he couldn't immediately recognise, but it seemed to be capable of growing in strength with its wielder, based on common motifs it shared with other sentient weapons with similar characteristics. It didn't seem soul-based in its creation, and he was strongly leaning toward the origin of its existence being Raw Magic given form and life, possibly guided with some assistance by a caster of some sort. Those were always the most fascinating of enchantments.

"Where did you get this _beauty_ from?"

"Would you believe it? Louise took us to a shop in the village, and the little lady haggled down the price of the sword to a hundred écus! The bed cost only fifty!"

Dalgan swore. Louise was either far better at bargaining than he'd given her credit for, or the shopkeeper was an utter moron.

"Well, has it talked yet?" he asked, not taking his eyes away for the slightest moment, mesmerised by the pattern. It was fascinating, and now he was furious that he hadn't tagged along with Louise for the trip. To think he could have seen this majestic creation hours ago!

Though he couldn't see his simulacrum, he could practically hear that same excitement reflected in his voice. "Not yet, but I haven't quite made it known that I knew of its sentience. Wanted to share the surprise with you, dearest Prime."

Prime? He ignored his weird naming conventions. He was about to probe a little deeper, possibly cast _Detect Thoughts_ or fetch a reference text on _Legend Lore_, when the blade _moved._

"…okay, I'll bite," it said, a little mouth-like apparatus appearing just above the cross-guard. Unbidden, his own mouth fell open with awe, and considering that Lesser Dalgan was a copy of himself, his simulacrum likely did the same.

A true sentient blade! One that seemed to have a _Magic Mouth_, rather than communicating psychically like so many others seemed to do! In fact, it was almost like Lilarcor, only it _seemed_ to have its brains screwed the right way around so far.

"I've seen many things, but none quite like this. I had a surprise planned and everything, damn it! Who _are _you two mages, and why do you look exactly the same?!" the sword asked accusingly. Emotions as well! This was a true wonder! "Brimir's name, what did that damned shopkeeper put in that drink?"

"You can drink?" He asked excitedly. Not only sentient, but requiring sustenance? He heard of blades that craved and absorbed blood and souls, of course, but a true need for mundane sustenance was unheard of.

"No, kid, that was a joke," it intoned dryly. "Question still stands, though. I appreciate all that flattery – at least _someone _stillhas an eye for greatness in this day and age – but who in all of Halkegenia _are _you two?"

"This day and age?" Lesser Dalgan followed up before he could. "How old are you? Damn it, Prime, I want _True Seeing_!"

"Ehh, six thousand years, give or take a few," came the answer, and Dalgan's smile widened. Not just sentient, but sentient _and _ancient. "Anyway – as much as I appreciate your gawking around – an _answer_, if you would be so kind?"

Dalgan eyed his simulacrum sideways, a wry grin beginning to form. "You want to take this, or shall I?"

That same smirk was mirrored on Lesser Dalgan's face. He shrugged. "All yours, boss."

He wasn't too worried about the possibility of the blade leaking out the truth of his identity. Even if he couldn't bind the blade to secrecy, the threat of a Ninth Level _Dispel Magic _utterly wiping any trace of enchantment upon the sword would more than likely be sufficient for it to bide its tongue.

"You might want to sit down for this."

"I don't have _legs, _buddy," the sword snorted. "Now hurry up! I'm getting older every second!"

"Well, you see…"

-o-o-o-

"Bullshit," was the first thing he said when at last the tale was done.

"True," the man – Dalgan Wintersoul, also known as Dalgan Dimwit, a wizard with far too many aliases for him to list – agreed. "I have often been told that I resemble bovine faecal material."

A mage – apologies – _a wizard _from a whole other world? One that rivaled Brimir for power? Who was, apparently, treating his summoning into Tristain as a _vacation_, despite bearing runes that marked him as a familiar? One who was able to create an illusory double that was fully capable of behaving and acting as an almost perfect copy of himself?

He had shared with Derflinger how he was master and familiar both to the girl who had been at the store where his '_simulacrum' _picked him out. He gave a personal demonstration of magic requiring no wand or staff of any sort, and though Derflinger had seen Spirit Magic at work before it had felt nothing like this.

Derflinger had lived a great many years, dating back to the time of Brimir himself. He'd been wielded by the first _Gandalfr_, and then every one after that. He had never before seen battle in the hands of anyone who wasn't the _Left Hand of God_, and a Familiar of one of the rare Void Mages.

He had never been wielded by anyone capable of using _magic,_ and certainly not by someone with the power that Dalgan claimed to have. The runes on his hand were decidedly not Gandalfr, but still Derflinger could feel a sense of power creeping at his non-existent bones. Choosing this man as a partner felt _right._

"So then, sword, what _is_ your name, anyway?" the _copy _that had first seen Derflinger's power and had been quiet thus far asked curiously. "Please tell me it's not Lilarcor?"

"It's Derf, Partner," he replied lazily. "Short for Derflinger. What in Halkegenia is a Lilarcor, anyway?"

"'Partner'?" The real Dalgan raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "Ah, you are mistaken, Derf. We don't really fight with swords."

_What?!_

"WHAT!" He was outraged. "Why not?! Trust me, Partner, I'm the best sword any guy could ask for! With me by your side, you could accomplish anything! Save princesses, slay dragons, conquer kingdoms; all yours for the taking!"

"He's done them all, actually," Dalgan Two commented. Had he legs, Derflinger would have had whiplash from the speed he would have turned. Alas, he had to be content with staring blankly upward from where he was laid flat on the table. "And, ah, boss? We _may _need to reconsider that…"

"What do you mean?"

"The little girlie's got a familiar exhibition or something, apparently," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "She wants us to show off our 'swordplay'."

He didn't miss the sarcasm in that final word. Derflinger's ears perked up.

Well, they would, if he had ears.

"I _knew _that duel with Guiche was going to be a mistake," Dalgan sighed. "Why can't we just tell a joke or something? A Drow and a Duergar walk into a bar –"

"See, that's what _I _tried to tell her!" the clone interrupted. "Great minds think alike!"

"You both have the same mind," Derflinger cut into the conversation. Both Dalgan's looked toward him. Boy, this was really bizarre, which was saying something since he was a _six thousand year old talking sword_. "And it sounds to me like you need a good sword after all! What do you say, Partner?"

Dalgan looked at his clone, his eyes narrowed.

A moment passed. Two. He could see the clone visibly gulp.

"H- hey, boss, don't you think it's a little –"

"Alright, me. Your job is to accompany Louise for her little show and tell – exhibition – thing. Use _Tenser's Transformation _if you need to."

"That's a waste of a spell!" Dalgan Two argued. "I don't have infinite magic! Your mind recharges every day!"

"You agreed to her request," the primary one said, already looking away from his minion. Ah, how Derflinger empathised with him. "Your responsibility."

"You wouldn't have rejected her either, you know that!" he whined. "We've got the same heart, feelings, soul, whatever!"

"Magus Ratunda's work says otherwise," Dalgan commented offhandedly, rummaging through a pouch by his side. Derflinger tried to crane what would serve as his neck to take a better look. "And irrelevant, anyway. You get to spend more time with our favourite apprentice."

"You mean our _only _apprentice," the simulacrum retorted, before relenting. "Fine! But then you do something for me – is – in return!"

"Oh?"

"Turns out the girl's got two sisters." The real one paused in whatever it was he was doing with that tiny bag, looking curiously at his copy. "One's a prick or something – she wasn't clear on the details – but the other has an affliction of some kind."

"Sickness, poison, disease, curse? Magical, or mundane?"

"That's what _I _tried to find out! Makes sense, you know, considering we're _the same person." _The copy glared at his master for a moment. "Turns out this world doesn't distinguish between them. Can you believe it?!"

"Huh." Derflinger saw the mage blink. "Well, if her story touched your heart, and mine by extension, I suppose we can see what can be done at the end of our vacation."

"Great, boss!" One Dalgan gave a thumbs up to the other. Derflinger had no idea if this mage (sorry, Wizard) was insane, bored out of his mind, or just plain narcissistic. Perhaps all three. "Say, you know that people aren't suppose to work on vacation and all –"

"You're stuck in Louise duty, me. Tough luck."

"Dammit," he heard the copy swear under his breath. "What _are_ you looking for, anyway?"

"I swear it should be just over here – aha!"

With that, Derflinger watched, as an entire _blade _came out from within the astronomically small space of his pouch. Before he could even voice his surprise, yet another shock came to his system.

"Finally! Sunlight!" He heard a loud, brash voice cheer, then realized it came _from the sword. _"Alright then! When do we get to bash some heads? I'm the best at what I do, and what I do ain't pretty!"

"Derf," Dalgan said, as he placed the sword next to himself. He watched in horror as the mouth on that monstrosity of a sentient weapon grinned widely. "I'd like for you to meet Lilarcor."

"OH HEY THERE! You're a sword, just like me! HAH! Are we gonna kill something now?" It asked excitedly. "Something small? Anything? C'mon now – HEY!"

"As you can see, it is a little unlikeable," Dalgan said, placing it back into that impossibly large pouch. (_'Unstable, more like,'_ the clone scoffed in the background.) "It makes you my favourite sentient weapon right now, but do know that I won't hesitate to erase every bit of enchantment on what you call a body if you so much as think of ruining my vacation."

Alright. Message _received. _Do _not_ fuck with the boss. "Loud and clear, Partner."

"Excellent," he said, then handed Derflinger over to his copy. He would have objected to being tossed over so roughly, but really when there were two beings capable of ending his unnaturally long life right next to him he wasn't stupid enough to argue with them.

"What are you doing giving me this for?" the simulacrum asked. "I don't use swords!"

"Learn fast, then," Dalgan said, shrugging. "You've got a performance in… however many days there are left. Hells below, dual wield _Derflinger _and _Lilarcor _and you can put on a comedy act or something."

Derflinger snorted at that, even though he should have felt insulted. After years spent rusting away, he would jump at the chance for interaction of any sort.

The main Dalgan continued speaking dismissively, "Go bother our wayward little apprentice; I've got reading to do."

"But –" his protests fell in deaf ears, the Wizard already flipping through his books. Derflinger didn't quite know how he should react to what was unfolding before his eyes. Realistically speaking, it should read like a man falling apart at the seams, arguing with himself, but there was no way someone so mentally unstable could be as powerful as Brimir, right?

…right?

"Ugh! Fine! But you owe me a _True Seeing _now!"

"If it stops your whining." The Dalgan at the books rose from his chair, fetched yet another object from the inside of what was quickly appearing to be a bottomless bag, and began applying _ointment_ of some sort to the eyes of his copy. "You get an hour."

He stepped back, raised a hand before himself, and spoke grandly.

"_With these hands I grant thee Sight, that thou may witness Mystryl's might."_

Derflinger watched, amazed, as a brilliant flash of blue shone forth from where his finger touched his copy's forehead, before slowly condensing into a still-brightly glowing orb centered around each eye. Slowly, that light seemed into each pupil, before becoming almost indistinct from how they had been previously.

"You really didn't need an incantation like that, you know," the copy chided. "Over-the-top, inefficient, and – _holy shit_, you've been seeing this the whole time?!"

The moderate interest that had been shown toward Derflinger intensified, and he watched, bewildered, as the Dalgan who had discovered him ran a finger up along the spine of his bladed body, muttering words under his breath the whole time. Looking to the side, Derflinger could see the real Dalgan watching on with amusement.

"These enchantments! This level of detail! You're a beauty!" Derflinger would have blushed at that compliment, had he been capable of that. It wasn't everyday that your everyday sword was fawned over by a mage of grand standing! Dalgan continued his gushing. "You and me, Partner. We're going to have so much fun!"

With that, he was carried away from the room, still being obsessed over by the wizard. Derflinger had an idea that he would be seeing quite some interesting days ahead.

* * *

**Soooo I've now hit the word count goal for NaNoWriMo. I'm a little burnt out from writing this now (even though nothing's _happened_), so expect slower updates. It's just taking forever to set things up and reach the part where I plan to diverge more significantly from canon (the Albion prince bit). Might divide my time between some other ideas I had for other stories, we'll see. Thanks for sticking around!**


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